~ 


/I 


a^ctJi 


A  TANGLED  WEB 


This  story  is  issued  in  England  under  the  title  of 
"No  Soul  Above  Money" 


A  Tangled  Web 

By 

Walter  Raymond 

AUTHOR    OF   "TWO  MEN  O'    MENDIP,"    "GENTLE- 
MAN    UPCOTT'S      DAUGHTER,"      "LOVE 
AND     QUIET     LIFE,"      "  TRY- 
PHENA  IN  LOVE,"  ETC. 


New  York 

Doubleday  &  McClure  Co. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE  CO. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

:HAPTER  PAGE 

I.  FAREWELL i 

II.  NEIGHBOURS 19 

III.  BRATTON  REVEL 41 

IV.  HARVEST 79 

V.  WARNING 91 

VI.  HALLOWMAS  EVE 116 

VII.  RECONCILIATION 142 


BOOK  II 

I.  "  THEY  Two,  THEIRZELVES  " 155 

II.  FOUR-PENNYWORTH  OF  FORTUNE 173 

III.  URSULA'S  SCHEME 184 

IV.  THE  HIGHWAY 201 

V.  THE  WAYFARER 219 

v 


2227838 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VI.  AN  HIDING  PLACE 225 

VII.  BACK  TO  URSIE 236 

VIII.  URSIE'S  COUNSEL 242 

IX.  EASTER 254 

X.  THE  FUN  o'  THE  FAIR 268 

XI.  THE  ORDEAL 299 

BOOK  III 

RlZPAH 315 


A  TANGLED  WEB 


A  TANGLED  WEB 

BOOK  I 


CHAPTER  I 
FAREWELL 

Far  away  behind  Penscelwood,  the  first 
streak  of  summer  dawn  came  breaking  above 
the  level  ridge  of  the  hills — one  pale,  straight 
line  of  red,  like  a  rent  in  the  grey  curtain  of  the 
night. 

The  valley  to  the  west  lay  in  darkness  still. 

In  the  village  of  Bratton,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hollow,  starlings  had  begun  to  twit- 
ter by  the  chimneys,  and  sparrows  under  the 
eaves;  but  it  was  but  the  tuning  of  the  pipes 
before  the  play,  for  as  yet  no  people  were  astir. 

Of  the  houses  scattered  along  the  steep  road, 
no  eye  could  have  distinguished  the  dormers 
from  the  roofs,  or  the  windows  from  the  walls. 
The  small  homestead  standing  away  in  a 
field,  properly  called  Winterhays,  but  common- 
ly spoken  of  as  "up  to  White's,"  was  but  a 

darker  spot  under  the  brow  of  the  coomb.    The 
1 


2  A  Tangled  Web 

Whites  had  held  it  for  two  centuries,  and  lived 
there  still.  But  the  other  day — well,  on  the 
Sunday,  then,  as  Candlemas  fell  on  the  Tues- 
day— William  White,  the  elder,  seized  with 
a  sudden  distemper,  was  taken  in  his  prime, 
and  so  the  place  dropped  into  hand. 

Presently  a  faint  light,  glimmering  from  the 
kitchen  of  this  solitary  farm,  showed  that  some 
one  moved  within.  Then  came  a  constant 
flash,  regular  as  the  throbbing  of  a  pulse,  as 
bellows  drove  a  quickening  fire  of  turf  and 
sticks  into  a  blaze.  Then  a  single  candle  shone 
from  one  of  the  little  square  windows  under  the 
eaves  and  running  right  up  under  the  thatch. 

The  Whites  were  up  and  about  early  that 
morning  and  no  mistake.  But  Bratton  still  lay 
in  the  gloom  asleep,  and  took  no  note  of  that. 

The  rising  flood  of  coming  day  flowed  softly 
over  the  distant  hills  and  slowly  filled  the  vale. 
Things  came  into  light  and  grew  into  form 
and  being.  Tall  trees,  dark  orchard  and 
copse,  green  fields  and  grounds  of  corn  soon 
turning  yellow,  all  took  colour  and  peered  out 
of  the  twilight  and  the  mist.  Red  and  white 
cattle  were  standing  by  the  hedge-row  down  in 
Jacob  Handsford's  mead.  Near  to  White's 


Farewell  3 

was  a  rick  new-made  and  not  yet  railed  around. 
East  of  the  farmhouse  lay  a  square  barton  with 
styes  and  stalls,  and  at  the  front  a  garden  shut 
in  with  low  walls.  From  a  large  stone  porch, 
bigger  than  many  a  small  room,  with  a  seat  on 
each  side,  a  short,  straight  path,  roughly  paved, 
led  to  a  little  wooden  hatch,  with  a  lilac  just 
gone  past  on  one  hand,  and  a  laburnum,  still 
in  golden  flower,  upon  the  other. 

Behind  the  distant  hill  a  shaft  of  fiercest  light 
shot  up  into  the  sky. 

The  under-edges  of  the  cloud  seemed  to 
catch  fire  and  shone  out  all  a-glow.  Yet  it 
wanted  somewhat  of  sunrise  still,  when  the 
oaken  door,  studded  with  nails,  slowly  opened, 
and  three  persons  came  out  and  walked  one  be- 
hind the  other  down  the  broken  flag-stones  to 
the  gate.  There  they  loitered  awhile — the 
widow  White  and  her  two  sons,  William  and 
Jack.  There  was  a  leave-taking  and  a  good- 
bye. Yet,  after  all,  the  widow  changed  her 
mind,  and  walked  across  the  field  right  up  into 
the  road. 

The  widow  White  was  staid.  That  is  to  say, 
though  the  grace  and  gaiety  of  youth  had  fled, 
she  was  still  comely.  Thirty  years  of  married 


4  A  Tangled  Web 

life  at  Winterhays,  where  they  had  never  done 
well — the  struggle  with  a  long  family,  of  which 
William  was  the  eldest  and  Jack  the  youngest 
left  alive — and  then  the  loss  of  her  good-man, 
whose  life  was  the  last  on  the  land — all  these 
troubles  had  not  bowed  her  head,  and  she 
moved  more  sprack  and  active  now  than  many 
a  maid  little  more  than  out  of  her  teens. 

Her  hair,  once  black,  was  turning  grey. 
There  were  arched  wrinkles  upon  her  forehead, 
and  deep  upright  lines  between  her  eyes.  But 
these  will  come  from  rain  and  sun  to  folk  who 
go  all  weathers  in  the  open  air,  and  a  yeoman's 
wife  in  the  time  of  "good  Queen  Anne"  was  no 
fine  lady  to  sit  about  indoors.  Anyway,  her 
dark  eyes  were  bright  and  her  cheek  fresh- 
coloured  as  the  morning. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  home-spun  skirt,  alto- 
gether covered  in  front  by  a  coarse  white 
apron  both  long  and  broad.  Over  her  shoul- 
ders and  crossed  before  she  wore  a  plain  wool- 
len shawl.  Of  the  three,  she  alone  was  bare- 
headed. She  had  but  stepped  out  so  far  as  the 
road  just  to  bring  her  son  going  and  she  kept 
knitting,  knitting  all  the  way.  The  needles, 
glistening  bright  as  the  morning  dew,  went  of 


Farewell  5 

themselves  without  her  heed.  But  her  busy 
hands  told  their  story  of  toil.  They  were  hard 
and  brown,  and  there  was  a  deep,  dry  crack  on 
one  of  the  fore-fingers. 

Her  sons  walked  one  upon  each  side. 

William,  the  elder  by  several  years,  was  a 
short,  stiff  man  with  a  determined  face.  Be- 
low his  high  cheek-bone  he  bore  a  deep  scar, 
which  showed  the  more  because  he  was  clean 
shaven.  He  was  dressed  in  part  like  a  sailor, 
and  swayed  somewhat  in  his  gait.  But  Jack, 
a  mere  stripling  of  nineteen,  wore  a  smock 
reaching  nearly  to  the  worsted  hose  below  his 
knees.  In  his  left  hand  was  a  bundle.  Each 
of  them  carried  a  stout  ground-ash  stick. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  road,  the  dewy 
grass  lay  in  the  night  like  a  sheet  of  silver. 
The  two  oaks  out  in  ground,  and  the  row  of 
shrouded  elms  in  the  hedgerow,  cast  long 
shadows  right  across  the  field. 

"It  must  be  handy  'pon  four,"  she  said,  with 
a  glance  at  the  hills.  "The  sun  is  up.  But 
you'll  get  to  Bristol  hours  afore  dark-night. 
An*  you'll  write,  William,  you'll  be  sure  to 
write  or  zend  word,  if  ever  you  do  get  the 
chance " 


6  A  Tangled  Web 

"Ay,  Mother,  to  be  sure ;  whenever  chance  do 
fall.  You  may  be  certain-sure  o'  that,"  replied 
the  mariner,  quickly. 

"An'  you'll  carr'  his  bundle  for  him,  Jack, 
so  far  as  you  can  go,"  she  went  on,  though  she 
could  not  take  her  eyes  off  William  when  she 
spoke  to  Jack. 

"I  will,  Mother." 

"And  you'll  zit  yourself  down  somewhere  in 
the  shade,  do  'ee  now,  come  mid-day,  when  the 
sun's  at  his  height.  For  't  'ull  be  most  terrible 
hot,  and  the  road  like  the  floor  of  a  oven.  I 
shall  think  o'  'ee,  William,  all  manners  o' 
times.  When  I  do  hear  the  cry  o'  the  storm 
over  Cattle  hill,  or  the  moanen  o'  the  win'  up  in 
the  wood,  I  shall  feel  fit  to  drop,  for  God 
A'mighty  do  only  know  whe'er  or  no  I  shall 
ever  zee  'ee  back." 

"I  shall  be  back,  Mother,  no  fear.  And  may- 
hap bring  home  enough  to  make  the  place  our 
own  again,"  he  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Well,  since  't  have  a-got  to  be,  there's  little 
good  in  words,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"And  'tis  better  to  walk  in  the  cool.  So  I 
won't  keep  'ee  about." 

She  stopped  knitting  for  the  first  time.     She 


Farewell  7 

threw  one  arm  around  her  son  and  kissed  him. 
It  was  all  very  simple,  and  so  natural  and  self- 
contained  that  no  one  seeing  this  farewell  could 
have  gauged  the  depth  of  feeling  in  her  heart. 

"Please  God,  keep  'ee  safe,"  she  muttered. 
It  was  half  prayer,  half  blessing,  and  then,  the 
prudent  mother  getting  the  better  of  her  again, 
she  added  in  a  louder  tone,  "But  you  had  best 
to  be  getting  on." 

"Good-bye,  Mother." 

"Good-bye,  William." 

She  stood  a  moment  waiting  in  the  road — 
then  quickly  turned  and  hastened  towards  the 
house.  It  was  hard  to  take  her  eyes  away,  yet 
well  enough  she  knew  it  always  brings  bad  luck 
to  watch  the  parting  traveller  out  of  sight. 

The  way  went  winding  down  a  steep,  and 
for  some  distance,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  the 
brothers  traipsed  along  in  silence.  Thus  they 
passed  the  cottages,  the  broad  pathway  leading 
up  to  the  church  upon  the  hill-top,  and  came 
soon  in  sight  of  the  last  dwelling  in  Bratton- 
town. 

This  was  a  farm-house  of  good  size,  stand- 
ing end-ways  towards  the  road,  and  William 
White  scanned  it  narrowly  as  they  drew  near. 


8  A  Tangled  Web 

The  door  was  shut.  No  smoke  arose  from  the 
little,  red,  brick  chimney  at  the  end  of  the  ridge 
of  thatch,  and  not  a  blind  had  yet  been  drawn. 
He  stopped — lingered  a  moment,  looking  up 
in  expectation — then  stepped  aside,  and 
stooped  to  pick  up  a  clod  of  dry  crumbling 
earth  from  the  bank  below  the  opposite  hedge. 

A  white  curtain,  hanging  by  brass  rings 
from  a  cord,  was  hastily  thrust  aside,  and  the 
head  of  a  young  woman  glanced  from  the  small 
window  in  the  pointing-end  against  the  road. 
She  steathily  pushed  the  casement  open  and 
leaned  out  into  the  morning  air.  The  sound  of 
passing  footsteps  had  mingled  with  a  dream 
bred  of  her  expectation,  and,  half-awake,  she 
had  sprung  out  of  bed  in  dread  of  being  late. 
Over  her  head  she  had  thrown  a  white  necker- 
chief and  tied  it  together  under  the  chin.  Yet 
curling  locks  of  her  bright  red  hair,  fallen 
loose,  hung  over  her  forehead.  She  raised 
both  hands  and  threw  it  back  out  of  her  eyes. 

"Lawk  a  massy !  William,  I  was  afeard  you 
mid  ha'  passed,"  she  whispered,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

Reassured,  she  yawned  and  rubbed  her  eyes. 
Then,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  she  added,  "But 


Farewell  9 

you  wouldn't  ha'  liked  it  so  very  well,  I  sup- 
pose, if  I  had  let  'ee  go  off  like  that." 

"I  was  looking  to  have  a  last  word,  Ursie." 

In  his  delight  at  seeing  her,  he  raised  his 
voice  and  spoke  more  loudly  than  he  meant,  but 
she  quickly  held  up  a  warning  finger,  and  he 
drew  in  to  the  corner  of  the  house  close  under 
the  window. 

Young  Jack  had  long  ago  gone  slowly  on  his 
way  down  the  hill. 

"Not  but  what  it  would  be  all  one,"  she 
laughed,  but  as  a  woman  who  has  not  got  her 
way  and  feels  slighted.  "By  the  time  you  be 
ten  mile  out  o'  Bratton,  you  will  ha'  forgot  all 
about  Ursie  Handsford.  Out  o'  sight,  out  o' 
mind.  That's  the  way  wi'  all  the  men,  an' 
most  o'  all  wi'  you  sailors.  Well,  I've  a-begged 
'ee  not  to  go — sure  enough." 

Truly,  for  a  maid  whose  lover  was  about  to 
undertake  the  perils  of  fighting  and  the  sea,  she 
betrayed  but  little  fear  or  feeling.  She  was 
teasing  him,  bent  on  making  him  tell  how  much 
he  loved  her. 

She  got  her  way  at  once. 

"There's  no  other  woman  upon  earth  I'd 
look  at  in  the  way  of  love,  and  that  you  do  well 

2 


io  A  Tangled  Web 

know,  Ursula  Handsford.  No,  not  if  she  were 
so  pretty  as  an  angel." 

He  was  so  terribly  in  earnest  that  it  sounded 
like  taking  a  Bible  oath,  at  least ;  and  that  was 
what  she  loved  to  hear.  Her  manner  changed 
at  once.  When  he  talked  so,  then  she  felt  fond 
of  him. 

"But  how  long  do  'ee  think  to  bide  away?" 
she  asked,  so  eagerly  that  her  voice  quavered. 

"Nobody  can  tell.  'Tis  just  as  the  luck  mid 
turn  out.  There'll  be  knocks  enough  to  take 
afore  there's  prize-money.  But  never  fear; 
what  I.  do  get  I'll  hold  fast  to.  I'll  be  back  for 
'ee  wi'  my  pockets  full,  if  you'll  wait  a  bit, 
Ursie." 

"La'  William,  it  mid  be  years,  an'  I  shall 
never  bide  at  home ;  I  do  know  I  sha'n't,  there ! 
I  never  can't,"  she  said,  with  a  sinking  of  the 
heart. 

"Long  or  short,  there's  nothing  'pon  earth 
shall  keep  me  when  I've  a-won  enough  to  make 
a  good  home.  But  I'll  never  come  back  to  be 
nothing  in  Bratton,  where  the  Whites  have 
a-lived  so  many  years." 

"I'll  wait  for  'ee,  William,  if  'tis  till  Dooms- 
day, for  I  believe  you'll  do  it  an'  come  back  an' 


Farewell  1 1 

marry  me  as  you  do  zay,"  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  outburst  of  passion,  and  she  leaned  fur- 
ther out  of  the  window  towards  him,  and  gazed 
longfully  into  his  face.  Her  great  blue  eyes 
looked  frank  and  truthful  as  the  day. 

"I  know  it,  Ursie  dear.  I  shall  carry  the 
thought  in  my  heart." 

"Ay,  I've  a-promised  'ee  afore,  and  now  I  do 
again,"  she  broke  in,  with  growing  warmth, 
and  then  her  voice  fell  sad.  "But  it  will  be  all 
in  the  dark,  so  to  speak.  However  long  'tis,  I 
shall  never  hear  a  word." 

"Ah,  but  that's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  'ee,'* 
he  answered,  quickly,  for  he  had  well  nigh  for- 
got. "You  must  talk  to  Jack.  We  shall  be  in 
the  Channel,  Ursie,  an'  put  into  port  now  an' 
again.  Yet  if  you  could  read  it,  Ursie,  I 
couldn't  send  'ee  a  letter  unbeknown.  But 
when  we  do  put  in,  I  shall  send  to  Jack,  and 
he'll  tell  'ee  all  about  it,  just  as  he  will  to 
Mother,  and  read  it  out  to  'ee,  Ursie,  if  you 
will,  word  by  word.  You  can  trust  Jack  for  a 
true  friend.  He's  most  wonderful  fond  o'  me. 
And  so  you'll  hear  all." 

"But  come  back  for  a  day  or  so,  even  if  you 
must  go  again,"  she  coaxed. 


12  A  Tangled  Web 

He  shook  his  head,  thoughtfully,  as  if  it 
were  not  to  be  done. 

Then  the  whim  for  mischief  caught  hold  of 
her  once  more.  "Or,  like  enough,  Father  may 
frighten  me  out  o'  it;  or  I  mid  chance  to  catch 
a  mind  to  another  man " 

She  stopped  short.  Even  the  thought  stirred 
such  anger  and  jealousy  in  his  heart  that  he  set 
his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fists. 

"If  I  had  risked  my  life,  and  won  enough, 
and  come  home  to  find  'ee  wi'  another — I'd, 
I'd  kill  the  fellow,"  he  hissed. 

He  meant  it,  too,  for  he  looked  dangerous. 
But  she  only  laughed.  Though  it  made  her 
half  afraid,  she  loved  to  hear  him  talk  like  that. 

"Hark!" 

Suddenly  becoming  grave,  she  raised  her 
hand  in  alarm  and  turned  her  head  to  listen. 
She  placed  her  fingers  on  her  lips  and  paused 
again.  Then,  throwing  him  one  hasty  kiss, 
without  another  word  she  stealthily  drew  to 
the  curtain  and  was  gone. 

He  understood  she  had  heard  someone  mov- 
ing in  the  house.  Mayhap  her  father  had 
caught  a  sound  of  their  talking.  Though  for 
that  matter  it  was  broad  daylight  now,  and 


Farewell  1 3 

frugal  country  folk,  who  burnt  no  candles  of  a 
night,  were  loth  to  waste  the  hours  of  sum- 
mer morning.  She  dared  not  come  again  to 
the  window.  He  was  sure  of  that.  For  since 
the  Whites  got  pinched  for  money,  neighbour 
Handsf  ord  had  hated  the  sight  of  him.  Ursula 
would  catch  it,  sure  enough,  if  all  were  known. 
So,  with  one  last  look  at  the  house,  he  crept 
under  cover  of  the  hedge-row  and  went  softly 
on  his  way. 

Around  the  second  bend  of  the  road,  kicking 
his  heels  against  a  gate,  sat  Jack  awaiting  him. 

Again  they  trudged  quickly  forward,  side  by 
side,  but  now  the  silence  which  had  marked 
their  first  departure  was  broken,  and  they 
talked  eagerly  because  their  time  was  short. 
All  their  circumstances',  all  the  affairs  of  life 
and  the  business  of  the  land — that  little  patch 
of  land  called  Winterhays — passed  in  review 
before  their  minds. 

How  things  had  been  taken  unawares-like, 
through  their  father's  sudden  death,  and  what 
a  pity  there  was  no  other  life  upon  the  farm. 
But  the  squire  had  treated  them  well,  so  he  had, 
to  let  their  mother  stay  on  as  yearly  tenant,  to 
see  if  they  could  take  the  place  up  again  and 


14  A  Tangled  Web 

keep  in  the  old  name.  And  how  Jack  must 
hold  things  together  and  do  his  best.  For  the 
money  parted  was  no  good  at  all.  So  it  was 
not  his  own  he  had  to  do  with.  He  must  mind 
that.  And  if  William  only  had  luck,  bye-and- 
bye,  in  a  year  or  two,  when  things  were  set  a 
bit  straight,  he  would  set  Jack  up  in  life,  an' 
make  a  man  o'  un,  so  he  would. 

"I  do  feel  downright  sorry  for  'ee  to  go,  Bill, 
that  I  do,"  cried  the  youth,  with  real  affection. 

"Never  mind,  sonny,  I  don't  care,"  laughed 
the  sailor.  "  "Tis  a  smart  little  ship,  and  as 
good  as  a  fortune  to  be  aboard  her." 

"But  I  heard  a  funny  sound  last  night.  I 
was  in  to  Wincanton  to  'The  Bear'  when  the 
coach  came  in.  Folk  said  the  Queen  was  going 
to  stop  the  war.  Leastways,  that  was  talked 
about.  There'd  be  an  end  to  privateering,  and 
prize-money,  too,  if  there  should  come  a 
peace." 

The  sailor  shook  his  head. 

"Oh  well,"  he  muttered,  grimly,  with  a  mind 
made  up  for  the  worst.  "Then  here's  off  to  the 
.West  Indies  if  that  do  come  to  pass." 

"But  you  wouldn't  turn  pirate." 

"That's  a  nasty  word,  boy.    But  as  for  set- 


Farewell  1 5 

ting  fire  to  a  nest  of  Spanish  papists,  I'd  as 
soon  do  it  as  burn  out  wapses.  What's  the  war 
about  but  to  keep  out  popery?  No,  Jack,  a 
papist  is  the  enemy  of  England  all  the  world 
over." 

He  spoke  with  firm  conviction,  as  if  the 
rightship  of  this  to  any  English  understanding 
must  be  beyond  doubt.  For  if  the  good  folk 
of  Somerset  loathed  popery  before  the  days  of 
the  Duke,  how  much  more  did  they  hate  it 
since?  And  Jack,  now  looking  at  the  matter 
with  a  more  serious  eye  and  from  a  loftier 
point  of  view,  saw  that  William's  words  were 
not  only  honesty,  but  sense. 

Thus  they  went  on  to  the  copse  in  the  bot- 
tom— then  to  the  end  of  the  common — then 
just  as  far  as  the  little  stonen  bridge.  The 
youth  found  it  so  hard  to  say  good-bye  and 
turn  back.  After  all,  it  was  no  more  than  a 
step  now  to  the  four-cross-roads.  But  time 
was  passing  on  and  Jack  must  get  home  to  the 
milking,  so  there  they  stopped  at  last,  being  of 
one  mind  that  they  must  part. 

To  have  a  word  more,  they  sat  down  a  min- 
ute by  the  wayside,  for  Jack  felt  sorry  at  heart 
to  go  home  alone.  Bill  was  a  boy  when  he  was 


1 6  A  Tangled  Web 

a  child,  and  then  a  man  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  had  seen  the  world,  and  fought  with  the 
French,  too,  and  was  most  terrible  good  com- 
pany if  only  his  tongue  were  a  bit  piled.  So 
William  was  a  great  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the 
younger  man. 

"Do  your  best  to  make  the  most  of  every  bit 
and  crumb,  Jack,"  the  sailor  urged  again.  "If 
any  ill  should  befall  to  me,  you'll  have  my 
share,  so,  anyway,  you  and  Mother  ought  not 
to  want  for  a  good  living."  He  hesitated. 
Then  his  voice  sank  into  a  confidential  whis- 
per. "And  keep  in  wi'  Ursie  Handsford  what- 
ever you  do  do.  An'  get  Mother  to  have  her 
up  to  house.  She's  like  the  apple  o'  my  eye  to 
me.  And  Jack,  walk  out  as  though  by  chance, 
look-y-zee,  to  meet  the  maid.  And  say,  in  her 
ear  like,  that  I  sent  my  dear  love,  and  that  was 
my  parting  word." 

"I  will,  for  she's  most  times  up  and  down  the 
road  of  an  evening." 

"And  I  said,  if  I  ever  should  write,  you'd 
read  it  to  her." 

"And  zo  I  will,  Bill." 

"Well.  Good-bye,  boy,"  cried  the  sailor, 
springing  to  his  feet  with  sudden  determina- 


Farewell  1 7 

tion  to  cut  the  matter  short.  "  'Tis  no  good  to 
bide  about.  Let's  have  the  bundle.  Good-bye, 
Jack.  An'  do  thy  best.  And  now  you  hurry 
on  back." 

"Good-bye,  Bill." 

"Good-bye." 

So,  with  the  best  heart  they  could,  the  broth- 
ers shook  hands  and  parted  and  each  went  on 
his  way. 

Before  the  traveller  lay  a  short,  straight 
piece  of  road;  and,  at  the  end  of  it,  William 
White  stopped  a  moment  and  turned  to  take 
one  last  look  at  Bratton  and  the  hills.  He 
could  see  the  home  at  Winterhays.  White- 
washed and  bright  it  shone  from  a  setting  of 
dark  orchard  and  green  hill.  The  sun  was 
glistening  upon  the  windows,  and  gleamed  out 
of  each  diamond  pane  with  that  piercing 
brightness  no  gem  on  earth  can  rival.  His 
mother  bustled  out  to  post  ope  the  barton  gate 
in  readiness  for  Jack's  return. 

Into  the  mead  below,  but  lying  to  the  left, 
came  Ursula  Handsford  to  fetch  in  her  father's 
beasts.  He  stood  and  watched  her  whilst 
slowly,  one  by  one,  the  cows  were  lost  to  view 
behind  the  hedge-row.  Ursula  stopped  a  min- 


1 8  A  Tangled  Web 

ute,  stooped,  picked  up  a  clod  and  threw  at  the 
last  loiterer.    Then  she  too  was  gone. 

At  last,  in  good  earnest,  William  White 
started  on  his  journey  and,  turning  a  bend  in 
the  road,  at  once  passed  out  of  sight. 


Neighbours  j  9 


CHAPTER  II 
NEIGHBOURS 

Barely  had  William  White  withdrawn  from 
below  the  window  of  Ursula,  when  a  small, 
spare  man  crept  secretly  around  the  further 
corner  of  the  house  and  stopped  to  listen.  Not 
a  sound  could  he  hear.  He  came  forward  upon 
tip-toe  to  the  black  yew-tree  against  the  wall 
and  peered  over  into  the  road.  Not  a  soul  did 
he  see.  Unsatisfied  at  this  apparent  absence 
of  all  evil-doing,  he  drew  closer  under  the  dark 
branches  and  lay  in  wait,  like  a  terrier  watch- 
ing for  a  rabbit  to  bolt. 

But  nothing  came  of  it. 

"Ah !  the  sly  toads !"  he  sighed  to  himself  in 
a  voice  guttural  with  secret  disappointment. 

He  had  heard  a  board  creak  overhead,  and 
then  voices — yes  he  had,  sure  as  his  name  was 
Jacob  Handsford.  And  he  came  downstairs 
with  his  shoes  in  his  hand  so  soon  as  ever  he 
could  draw  on  his  breeches  and  hose,  so  he  did. 
And  yet  that  cunning,  fox-headed  thing  of  a 
maid  had  outwitted  him  after  all. 


20  ;A  Tangled  Web 

Jacob  muttered  to  himself  that  he  hated  any- 
thing sly — he  always  had. 

Then  he  climbed  carefully  over  the  wall, 
picked  half  a  handful  of  sharp  grit  from  the 
gutter  cut  on  the  hill-side  by  winter  rains,  and 
pitched  it  a  bit  at  a  time  against  Ursula's  win- 
dow-pane. 

But  Jacob  reckoned  without  his  host.  Half- 
a-dozen  times  had  he  rattled  against  the  glass, 
yet  not  so  much  as  a  corner  of  the  blind  quiv- 
ered in  response.  Ursula  Handsford  was  as 
sharp  as  her  father  any  day  of  the  week. 

So  Jacob  stood  there  and  scratched  his 
grizzled  crown  in  doubt. 

There  was  no  being  upsides  with  that  maid, 
who,  like  enough,  might  be  grinning  at  him 
now  out  of  some  peep-hole  or  the  other.  The 
mere  thought  of  it  made  him  more  angry  with 
Ursula  than  if  he  had  caught  her  in  the  act. 
Then  he  would  have  had  something  to  go 
upon;  but  now  he  made  but  a  poor  figure  in- 
deed, with  his  shirt  sleeves  unbuttoned,  his 
breeches  untied,  with  the  strings  hanging  loose 
about  the  knee. 

A  ferret-faced,  irritable  little  man,  standing 
not  more  than  five  foot  three  in  his  shoes,  he 


Neighbours  2 1 

fairly  stamped  with  rage.  His  grey,  pointed 
beard  wagged  and  jerked  up  and  down  like  the 
tail  of  a  wash-dish,  as  he  muttered  threats  and 
maledictions  against  this  daughter  whose  con- 
demnation was  the  deeper  because  she  was  not 
found  out.  "A  lazy  slug-a-bed — ought  to  have 
been  up  and  about  afore  this."  He  almost  per- 
suaded himself  that  his  only  errand  into  the 
road  had  been  to  give  her  a  call. 

"Urs'la!  Urs'la!"  he  shouted,  for  if  he  could 
pass  it  off  like  that,  he  should  not  look  such  a 
fool. 

The  maid  might  be  dead  in  her  bed  for  all 
the  sign  she  made. 

That  was  always  the  way  with  her,  a  sulky 
huzzy  who  would  hold  her  tongue  by  the  hour 
if  anything  fell  out  so  that  she  wasn't  best 
pleased. 

"Urs'la!" 

In  the  impatience  of  his  rage,  he  stepped 
back  one  pace  and  cast  the  pebbles  still  remain- 
ing in  his  hand  with  all  his  might  against  the 
window.  Some  of  the  little  diamond  panes, 
shattered  to  pieces,  fell  tinkling  to  the  ground. 

Nobody  answered  even  that. 

Then  a  misgiving  fell  upon  Jacob  Hands- 


22  A  Tangled  Web 

ford,  and,  for  a  moment,  his  anger  gave  way 
to  fear.  What  if  Ursula,  as  she  threatened 
nearly  every  day  of  her  life,  had  gone  and  left 
him  ?  The  thought  filled  him  with  alarm.  He 
could  hear  already  the  talk  of  all  the  neigh- 
bours, and  the  gossip  that  he  had  begrudged 
his  own  daughter  every  half-penny  and  driven 
her  away.  And  what  could  he  do  without  her  ? 
There  is  no  labour  on  earth  so  cheap  as  the 
hands  of  your  own  kin  who  work  for  their 
clothes  and  keep.  Ha!  to  have  a  strange 
woman  about  the  house  was  like  paying  money 
out  of  pocket  to  get  robbed.  He  had  always 
hated  to  think  that  some  day  Ursula  might 
marry;  and  now,  like  enough,  she  had  run  off 
with  William  White. 

The  dread  of  this  disturbed  him  so  much 
that  he  turned  quickly  and  hurried  up  the  road 
to  go  indoors.  To  a  sharp  eye,  her  empty  room 
would  tell  a  tale,  sure  enough.  But  as  he  came 
to  the  wall's  end,  and  opened  the  gate  between 
the  two  yews  trimmed  into  sugar  cones  with 
peacocks  at  the  top,  there  he  met  Ursula,  full- 
butt,  as  they  say,  coming  away  from  the  barn's 
door. 

He  knew  she  had  fooled  him — he  could  see 


Neighbours  2  3 

it  in  her  face.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  twist  by  the 
corner  of  her  mouth  in  the  shape  of  a  jeer,  and 
a  droop  of  the  eyelid  that  only  half  concealed  a 
secret  satisfaction. 

She  must  have  gone  out  before  he  came 
downstairs.  To  meet  that  worthless  fellow 
going  back  to  sea.  He  glanced  again  at  the 
barn,  half  expecting  to  see  William  White  ap- 
pear in  the  open  doorway.  Yet  how  could  she 
have  gone  out  first?  He  had  unlocked  the 
door  for  himself  from  the  inside.  Unless, 
mayhap,  she  stood  'pon  top  o'  the  leads,  and 
climbed  out  of  the  milk  house  window,  for  fear 
he  should  come  down  and  find  the  bolt  drawn. 

It  was  in  the  nature  of  this  miserly  little 
gnome  to  breed  suspicions  as  a  barren  ground 
grows  weeds.  He  had  the  wit,  too,  to  shape 
them  out  of  his  own  cunning ;  and  then  he  laid 
them  at  the  door  of  other  folk.  But  he  was  not 
going  to  let  out  what  he  thought.  He  would 
cast  his  eye  around  the  house  and  note  whether 
anything  were  left  amiss. 

The  girl  was  coming  straight  towards  him. 

She  was  so  tall  and  well-grown,  so  free  in 
gait  and  graceful  in  movement,  that  nobody 
would  have  taken  her  to  be  the  daughter  of  this 


24  A  Tangled  Web 

pigmy  fellow  with  the  little  three-cornered 
face.  Besides,  she  bore  an  open  countenance. 
Whatever  of  guile  it  displayed  was  but  a 
shadow  from  without,  and  not  the  malice  of  a 
mean  heart  within.  As  God  made  her,  she  was 
as  frank  and  open  as  he  was  pinched.  Yet 
Jacob  Handsford  had  done  something  to  mar 
the  meaning  of  Nature  in  this  maid.  . 

The  morning  shone  upon  her  bright  hair, 
and  glistened,  ruddy-gold,  through  the  loose 
locks  which  fell  in  disorder  over  a  forehead 
that  sloped  and  narrowed  somewhat  above  her 
broad  cheek-bones.  Her  grey  eyes  were  large 
and  bright,  and  so  were  her  ripe,  pleasure-lov- 
ing lips.  She,  like  the  widow  White,  wore  a 
large,  white  apron  from  the  waist,  but  above, 
a  laced  bodice  and  a  kerchief,  leaving  her  neck 
uncovered.  Her  round  arms  were  bare  below 
the  elbows,  and  in  one  hand  she  carried  a  mob- 
cap  with  a  broad  brim  to  hang  down  behind, 
not  unlike  the  curtain  of  a  sun-bonnet. 

Yes,  Ursula  Handsford  was  a  woman  born 
to  live;  just  as  her  father  was  one  to  whom 
neither  good  victuals  and  drink,  nor  any  of  the 
higher  joys  of  life  could  do  any  good. 

''You  be  about  in  good  time,"  he  sneered,  in 


Neighbours  25 

his  thin,  piping  voice.  "  Tis  wonderful  to  see 
'ee  down  wi'out  calling — sure!" 

"I  heard  a  sound  below,"  she  answered, 
sharply,  "I  looked  for  'ee  to  be  beating  'pon  the 
stair.  I  thought  sure  the  end  o'  the  world  were 
a-come  to  hear  'ee  creep  out  so  quiet  as  a  snail." 

She  was  more  than  a  match  for  him  when 
it  came  to  words,  and  she  was  not  afraid.  In 
those  days  before  bells,  it  was  his  way  to  arouse 
his  household  by  hammering  on  the  hollow 
staircase  with  a  hazel  stick  kept  handy  for  the 
purpose.  He  was  wont,  like  this,  to  make  noise 
enough,  as  the  saying  is,  to  lift  the  thatch.  And 
never  in  his  life,  until  this  moment,  since  she 
was  old  enough  to  work,  had  he  gone  out  of 
doors  until  Ursula  gave  signs  that  she  was 
awake. 

For  a  moment  he  was  taken  aback. 

"Get  on  down  then  an'  fetch  in  the  beasts," 
he  growled,  "since  you  be  so  sprack." 

Without  a  word,  the  girl  drew  an  ashen  stick 
from  the  faggot  pile  in  the  corner,  and  went  as 
she  was  bid. 

She  was  early,  and  there  was  plenty  of  time ; 
so  she  strolled  leisurely  across  the  home-field, 
through  the  leaze,  and  into  the  mead,  leaving  a 

3 


26  A  Tangled  Web 

wet  track  in  the  long,  dewy  grass  where  her 
feet  had  trod. 

She  thrust  back  the  gate,  made  it  fast  with  a 
stone,  and  stood  and  called. 

"Kobe— hobe— hobe— hobe." 

The  morning  was  alive,  and  she  was  young 
and  fresh.  Her  voice  rang  musical  across  the 
valley,  at  one  with  the  lark  above  her  head,  and 
the  low  whistle  of  the  blackbird  in  the  wild  crab 
tree. 

The  lazy  cattle  turned  and  stared.  Some, 
longing  for  the  ease  that  milking  gives  to  over- 
flowing udders,  began  to  draw  slowly  towards 
her.  Yet  she  must  needs  traipse  across  the 
ground  at  last  to  hurry  up  the  laggards.  She 
took  her  time  about  it.  As  for  her  father,  let 
him  wait.  If  he  had  not  that  to  grumble 
about,  there  would  be  something  else,  sure 
enough.  She  had  given  over  paying  much 
heed  to  him. 

So  William  White  was  gone  to  sea  again, 
mate  in  a  privateer,  and  lucky,  so  he  said,  to 
get  the  berth — that  thought  filled  her  mind, 
and  shut  out  all  the  rest.  It  made  her  heart 
quite  sorrowful  like.  Yet  with  luck,  and  his 
double  share,  who  could  tell?  He  might  be 


Neighbours  27 

home  in  no  time,  pockets  full,  and  ready  to 
marry  her  out  of  hand.  That  hope  was 
stronger  in  her  heart  than  any  fears  of  danger 
to  him  from  shot  or  storm.  Let  him  only  get 
luck,  and  take  her  out  of  these  everlasting  skin- 
flint ways  of  "nag — nag — nag"  from  morn  to 
night.  She  would  be  a  true  wife  to  him  all 
his  life. 

But  he  was  gone,  and  what  to  do  was  more 
than  she  could  tell. 

For  months  she  had  been  looking  for  him 
all  hours  of  the  day,  and  went  to  meet  him,  if 
only  for  a  minute,  just  in  the  dimmet,  every 
night — but  now,  she  must  go  on  as  best  she 
could,  with  no  man  to  walk  out  wi',  nor  any 
soul  to  wag  her  tongue  to,  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end.  Ursula  was  not  a  maid  just 
sweetheart  high  with  a  head  full  of  fancies,  but 
three  and  twenty  and  a  woman  grown.  She 
felt  gloomy  and  sad. 

Her  father  by  this  time  was  in  his  smock ;  a 
one-legged  stool  in  his  hand,  he  stood  by  the 
open  gate,  ready-waiting,  when  she  came. 

The  cattle  clustered  into  the  barton.  The 
slanting  sunlight  shone  against  their  straight 
red  backs,  making  dark  shadows  in  the  hoi- 


28  A  Tangled  Web 

lows  behind  their  pin-bones.  They  stood  stock- 
still  and  chewed.  Now  and  again,  stung  into 
sudden  energy,  a  tail  struck  off  a  fly  and  went 
on  swinging  as  if  by  its  own  weight.  Ursula 
fetched  stool  and  pail,  sat  down  to  a  sparked 
cow,  leaned  her  cheek  against  its  white  side, 
and  looked  away  at  the  grey  hills  beyond  which 
William  White  was  gone.  Not  a  sound  dis- 
turbed the  stillness,  only  overhead  a  ceaseless 
charm  of  birds,  and  below,  an  underlying  lul- 
laby of  rushing  milk  beating  against  oaken 
staves.  No  sweeter  picture  could  there  be  of 
restful  plenty  and  contentment. 

There  were  but  three  milkers,  and  these 
made  up  the  household,  too — Jacob,  Ursula, 
and  the  little,  workhouse  love-child,  christened 
Hannah  Peach,  bound  apprentice  to  the  said 
Jacob  Handsford  until  the  said  Hannah  Peach 
shall  come  to  the  age  of  one  and  twenty  years. 

Nobody  took  much  count  of  this  slip  of  a 
maid  of  eleven  with  the  anxious  face,  aged  be- 
yond her  years.  And  since,  in  Hannah's  ex- 
perience, notice  had  always  taken  the  form  of 
finding  fault,  this  was  her  dearest  wish,  and  the 
keystone  of  all  her  wisdom:  "Ah!  let  I  go 
'long  quiet  like,  an'  nobody  won't  take  no  count 


Neighbours  29 

o'  I."  So  she  kept  a  still  tongue  in  her  head, 
though  her  eyes  were  sharp  as  needles  and  her 
mouth  open  for  every  breath,  as  ever  the  bell 
of  a  poppydock  for  the  humming  of  a  bumble- 
bee. 

The  presence  of  Hannah  was  nothing  to  tie 
up  the  clapper  of  Jacob  Handsford. 

Suddenly  he  began  like  a  little  "ting-tang" 
bell. 

"So  William  White  is  off  to  sea  again.  Ha ! 
I  thought  he  wouldn'  be  here  very  long,  for  all 
he  were  to  bide  at  home  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
Ha !  Easy  got,  soon  gone.  Ho !  Ho !  Noth- 
ing left  to  show  but  the  cut  across  the  cheek- 
bone o'  un.  Ah !  and  the  rest  o'  'em  won't  have 
so  much  as  that  come  this  time  twelve-month. 
They'll  never  take  up  the  land.  Not  they. 
Somebody  wi'  more  thought  o'  to-morrow'll 
get  hold  o'  that  now." 

He  laughed  a  little  double-meaning  chuckle, 
not  loud,  but  with  a  lot  in  it.  How  it  sneered 
at  the  Whites,  and  gloried  in  Jacob  Hands- 
ford  who  had  more  thought  for  the  morrow 
than  any  other  man  he  knew. 

The  girl  flushed  crimson,  but  firmly  set  her 
lips  and  did  not  speak.  She  turned  her  head, 


30  A  Tangled  Web 

buried  her  forehead  in  the  hollow  behind  the 
cow's  ribs,  and  hid  her  face.  There  was  none 
of  her  to  be  seen  but  the  nape  of  her  broad  neck 
where  it  rounded  into  her  shapely  shoulders 
beneath  the  curtain  of  her  cap. 

He  went  on  again. 

"Aye,  there  were  neighbour  William  White 
what's  dead  an'  gone.  Oh,  he  were  such  a 
good  sort — sure;  such  a  wonderful  good  sort. 
'Twere  'Come  in,'  'Zit  down,'  'Have  another 
glass.'  There,  you  zee,  he  had  such  a  good 
heart  then.  Oh,  a  terr'ble  good  heart.  But 
now  he's  under  the  sod,  and  nothing  but  a  fool. 
For  that's  all  they  that  did  drink  wi'  un  zo 
merry  can  zay  o'  un,  to-day.  Foolish  man. 
Let  the  money  slip  like  water  through  the  fin- 
gers o'  un.  For  'twere  every  feast  and  revel 
then.  Up  to  Blackford,  over  to  Carey,  down 
to  Camel.  So  now  'tis  all  they  can  do  to  get 
bread.  Ha!  They  that  do  enjoy  themselves 
so  well,  goo  where  they  will,  an'  have  all  they 
do  want — they  don't  leave  much  work  for 
executors.  He !  he !  he !  Not  much  work  for 
executors.  No,  no." 

The  girl  could  bear  it  no  longer.  His  sav- 
ing, penny-wise  wisdom  aroused  her  anger 


Neighbours  3 1 

more  than  his  jeers,  for  as  he  talked  he  lived, 
and  had  never  so  much  as  a  farthing  to  spare 
for  her  to  go  abroad  to  junketting  or  fair.  She 
must  slave  for  nothing  from  morn  to  night. 
As  to  that,  she  was  no  better  off  than  Han- 
nah Peach,  except  that  what  he  saved  by  good 
right  should  come  to  her  some  day. 

But  the  thing  that  made  her  maddest  of  all 
was  the  little  "Ha!"  and  the  "He!"  and  the 
"Ho!"  thrown  in  to  point  his  speech.  These 
came  straight  out  of  his  heart.  They  stuck 
into  her  like  thorns.  And  he  was  worse,  to- 
day, because  he  had  broken  his  own  window, 
and  there  was  money  gone  to  no  good  end. 

She  had  just  milked  out  her  cow.  There 
was  no  need  of  it  as  yet,  but,  before  sitting 
down  to  another,  she  strode  across  and  poured 
the  child's  milk  in  with  her  own.  She  rested 
the  pail  against  her  knee,  lifted  it  to  her  head, 
then,  steadying  it  with  her  upraised  arms,  she 
slowly  rose  to  her  full  height  and  marched 
away  between  the  patient  beasts  out  of  sight 
behind  the  buildings. 

At  the  back  of  the  house,  on  the  north  side, 
where  the  thatch  came  down  so  low,  was  a 
small  court,  walled  in,  and  paved  with  great 


32  A  Tangled  Web 

flag-stones.  It  drained  from  both  sides  into 
the  middle,  where  there  was  a  gutter  and  a  sink 
with  a  grating  of  iron. 

She  crossed  the  yard,  stooped  to  pass  under 
the  door,  and  went  into  the  low-roofed  milk- 
house. 

How  cool  and  fresh  it  was  there,  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house  where  the  sun  never 
shone !  All  round  were  the  flat  leads,  and,  in 
the  middle,  the  great  oaken  cheese  tub.  Into 
this  she  poured  the  sweet-smelling  milk. 
Lawk!  'twas  but  a  drop,  sure  enough,  and 
scarce  covered  the  bottom  o'  the  tub.  She 
laughed  herself  to  see  it.  She  would  have  been 
ashamed  if  anybody  else  could  see.  Then  her 
face  flushed  again;  and  then  grew  hard.  Let 
him  say  about  three  words  more,  and  he  should 
milk  the  cows  for  himself. 

With  this  muttered  threat  upon  her  lips,  at 
once  she  went  back  to  the  barton. 

Hannah,  awkward  under  the  weight  of  pail 
and  stool,  was  waddling  to  another  cow. 

"Have 'ee  milked  her  dry ?  Eh?  Milk  her 
dry.  Be  sure  you  do  milk  her  dry.  Ha !  what 
you  don't  take,  to-day,  she'll  never  gie,  to-mor- 
row. Zo  'tes.  If  you  don't  catch  when  chance 


Neighbours  3  3 

do  fall,  'tes  slipped  drough  your  vingers  for 
ever.  An'  what  you  can  catch — kip.  He !  he ! 
Kip." 

Still  the  everlasting  cry,  "Get,  get.  Keep, 
keep!"  Nothing  but  harping  upon  this  one 
thought  from  morn  to  night.  She  went  to  the 
other  end  of  the  barton,  as  far  away  as  she 
could. 

Her  return  led  him  back  to  the  old  story,  and 
he  took  up  the  broken  thread. 

"Ah !  an'  that's  not  all,  nother,"  he  went  on, 
raising  his  voice  for  fear  she  should  be  out  of 
hearing.  "Let  alone  money  out  o'  pocket  an' 
time  a-lost,  where  you  do  go  you  mus'  ax  'em 
back.  If  you  don't,  they'll  come  quick  enough, 
ha !  ha !  like  the  locusts  o'  scripture,  an'  eat  'ee 
out  o'  house  an'  home.  Now,  up  to  hill,  to- 
morrow, Bratton  revel,  there'll  be  a  score  or 
more,  I'll  warrant  it,  '11  drop  in  unlooked-for 
like — and  she,  poor  foolish  woman,  make  'em 
welcome,  though,  for  the  life  o'  her,  she  don't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  He,  he !  But  that's 
the  way  of  the  world." 

His  words  touched  the  girl  upon  a  sore  point. 
His  sneering  at  the  Whites,  and  at  William  in 
particular,  she  had  schooled  herself  to  bear  in 


34  A  Tangled  Web 

silence;  but  this  stinginess  in  the  house,  both 
to  neighbours  and  kin  alike,  was  a  never-ceas- 
ing disgrace.  She  was  fit  to  hide  her  head 
with  shame  at  the  mere  thought  of  it. 

"An'  what's  that  to  you?"  she  burst  out, 
beside  herself  with  anger.  "If  all  creation 
should  come  to  Bratton,  there's  none  o'  'em  do 
come  here.  Why,  there's  never  a  Kirson  soul 
have  a-crossed  the  drashel  this  year  or  last, 
'ithout  'tis  to  dealy,  an'  then  if  you  do  han'  'em 
a  cup  of  cider,  you  do  count  every  time  they  do 
glutchy.  Why,  you  be  so  stingy,  you  be,  you 
do  begrudge  the  victuals  to  your  own  belly — 
you  do." 

The  little  workhouse  maid  looked  all  ways, 
as  the  saying  is.  To  her,  Jacob  Handsford 
was  "measter,"  and  that  anyone,  even  Miss 
Urs'la,  should  answer  him  was  beyond  belief. 
It  was  outside  all  the  true  nature  of  things. 
She  felt  a  misgiving  at  the  heart,  just  as  when 
it  thundered,  or  she  met  old  Molly  the  witch 
hobbling  down  the  lane. 

"Ha!"  cried  Jacob,  louder  still  and  more 
shrill.  "  'Tis  plain  to  zee  what  company  you 
do  kip,  by  the  words  you  do  let  fall.  But  you 
shall  never  ha'  a  varden  o'  my  money — not  if 


Neighbours  3  5 

you  do  marry  wi'out  consent.  Not  a  brass 
varden.  For  I'll  lef  it  away  by  will.  Ah !  zo 
I  will.  Iss,  I  will." 

He  got  up  and  walked  towards  her,  pushing 
his  way  between  the  cattle  with  the  flat  seat  of 
his  little  one-legged  stool. 

Stung  to  the  quick  by  his  talk  about  the  will, 
she  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  cow  was  but  half 
milked  out. 

"You  can  do  the  work  yourself,"  she  cried, 
turning  round  full-face.  She  was  taller  and 
broader  and  straighter  than  he.  She  had  more 
nerve,  too,  for  his  eyes  glanced  away  when  she 
looked  at  him.  "Or  hire  somebody  else,  if  you 
can  find  anybeddy  fool  enough  to  bide  an'  put 
up  wi'  your  ways.  I  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  Vather, 
you  can  do  what  you  like  wi'  your  money.  I 
don't  care.  But  gie  me  what's  my  own.  Gie 
me  the  two  hunderd  poun'  that  girt-uncle 
Jeremy  Handsfbrd,  my  own  god-vather,  lef 
me  by  will.  Gie  me  my  own  money  that 
you've  a-put  out  to  use,  and  the  interest  that 
you've  a-saved  back  these  years — an'  I'll  go. 
Tis  mine  by  law.  I  can  have  it  by  law.  An' 
I'll  leave  'ee — an'  willing,  ay,  glad  o'  my  heart 
to  do  it — from  this  day  forth.  Zo  there!" 


36  A  Tangled  Web 

This  threat  of  going  away  quieted  him  as 
nothing  else  on  earth  could  do.  The  money 
was  hers,  sure  enough,  and,  with  the  Whites 
at  her  back  to  edge  her  on,  he  might  put  off 
from  day  to  day,  but,  sooner  or  later,  he  must 
come  to  an  account.  And  all  the  gad-about, 
money-spending  neighbours  would  take  Ur- 
sula's part.  He  knew  that  for  certain  sure. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  but,  though  he 
tried  to  be  careless  and  hold  his  own,  his  voice 
quavered.  "Just  as  you  be  a-minded.  But, 
if  you  bent  a-gwaine  to  milky,  he,  he !  'tis  to  be 
hoped  your  ladyship  won't  be  too  proud  to  carr' 
in  a  pailful  as  you  do  goo." 

At  once  she  took  him  at  his  word.  But  her 
hands  were  shaking  with  excitement,  and,  as 
she  poured  in  Hannah's  milk,  she  spilt  a  little 
over  the  brim  of  the  pail. 

The  sight  of  waste,  though  it  were  but  a  tea- 
spoonful,  was  to  Jacob  Handsford  like  a  red 
rag  to  a  mad  bull.  He  could  not  see  it  and 
be  still. 

"Little  odds,  sim-zo  whe'er  you  do  bide  or 
goo.  'Tis  more  loss  'an  gain  wi'  'ee,  look 
so,"  he  snarled. 

Ursula  gave  neither  word  nor  sign.     She 


Neighbours  37 

filled  the  pail  full  up  this  time,  raised  it  upon 
her  head,  and  went  away  as  before.  But,  in 
the  little  paved  courtyard,  she  stopped.  For 
a  moment,  she  stood  erect  and  motionless  like 
an  image  carven  in  wood  or  stone.  All  the 
little  meannesses  for  which  she  suffered  shame, 
the  ever-pricking  sense  of  injustice  because  her 
money  was  withheld,  the  constant  taunts  and 
sneers  at  William  and  the  Whites,  came  crowd- 
ing pell-mell  into  her  memory  and  drove  her 
half  out  of  her  mind.  And  William  was  gone 
to  sea.  She  ground  her  teeth  with  rage.  In 
the  first  heat  of  a  burning  fury  kindled  by  a 
sense  of  wrong  and  ablaze  with  outraged  pride, 
she  took  three  strides  forward,  and  emptied  the 
pailful  of  fresh,  sweet-smelling  milk  into  the 
sink. 

"There,  then,"  she  said,  and  tossed  her  head. 

She  felt  glad  at  what  she  had  done — glad  at 
heart. 

It  was  a  protest  against  skinflint,  cheese-par- 
ing miserliness,  such  as  no  words  at  her  com- 
mand could  have  given  tongue  to.  It  did  not 
matter  in  the  least  that  her  father  would  not 
know.  That  made  no  difference  to  her.  She 
had  got  the  better  of  him,  and  was  making  him 


3  8  A  Tangled  Web 

pay  for  his  ha's  and  his  he's,  unbeknown.  She 
laughed  at  the  thought  of  how  he  would  rave 
if  he  knew. 

"Ursie!" 

Her  name  was  spoken  close  behind  her  back. 
She  started,  and,  red  as  a  peony,  turned  round. 

The  young  Jack  White  was  looking  over  the 
wall.  Only  his  head  and  just  the  open  work 
below  the  collar  of  his  smock  came  above  the 
flat  coping  stones.  He  was  staring,  wonder- 
struck — dumb-foundered,  as  the  country  people 
say.  And  yet,  as  open-mouthed  he  took  in 
both  her  anger  and  her  confusion,  a  glimmer 
of  merriment  twinkled  in  his  eyes. 

She  saw  it  at  once. 

"Then  all  the  parish'll  know  it,  and  grin," 
she  thought.  And  that  brought  her  to  herself 
and  steadied  her. 

Her  cap  had  fallen  upon  the  stones  when  she 
took  down  the  pail  and  still  lay  at  her  feet. 
She  stood  there,  a  woman  of  striking  charac- 
ter and  beauty  in  her  bare-headed  excitement. 
Then  the  fierceness  melted  out  of  her  eyes. 
She  blushed,  and  to  cover  her  confusion  gave  a 
short,  uneasy  laugh.  To  gain  a  moment,  she 
stooped  down  to  pick  up  her  cap. 


Neighbours  39 

"Don't  'ee  breathe  a  word  to  any  soul,  Jack," 
she  beseeched,  in  a  low,  coaxing  voice.  "I  do 
trust  'ee  for  that" 

"Not  I,"  he  promised,  as  ready  as  a  bee. 

"I  don't  mind  you,  yourzelf,  Jack,  a  bit," 
she  went  on,  kind  still,  for  she  saw  in  a  twin- 
kling that  she  could  get  round  Jack.  Yet,  all 
of  a  sudden,  she  blazed  up  again.  "There,  'tis 
more  that  I  can  do  to  bear  myzelf.  I  wish  the 
little  toad  were  dead  an'  in  his  grave,  I  do." 
And  then  again  she  talked,  quite  honey-sweet. 
"But  I'll  tell  'ee  more  about  it,  Jack,  quiet,  in 
your  own  ear  like,  to-morrow." 

"I  do  want  a  word  wi'  'ee,  Ursie.  Where 
will  'ee  be  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  eagerness. 

"I'll  go  to  Bratton  revel.  I  will  if  I  do  die 
for  it.  I  won't  be  penned  up  no  longer — and 
I'll  go — come  what  may,"  she  burst  out,  in  a 
fury  of  resentment,  as  she  recalled  her  wrongs. 
But  then  again,  she  bethought  herself  of  Jack. 
"An'  you'll  look  out  for  to  zee  me  there.  An' 
you'll  come  and  have  a  talk  wi'  me,  eh,  Jack  ?" 

"To  be  sure  I  will — an'  tell  'ee  about  Wil- 
liam, too,"  he  promised,  gladly. 

"Then  good-bye.  Don't  'ee  bide  now, 
there's  a  good  chap,  for  fear  he  should  hap  to 


40  A  Tangled  Web 

zee  *ee."  With  her  thumb  she  pointed  over 
her  shoulder  towards  the  barton. 

"Then  good-bye,  Ursie." 

"Good-bye,  Jack." 

Yet  he  lingered.  "I  say,  Ursie,  come 
straight  up  to  house  to-morrow.  Do  'ee, 
now." 

"An'  zo  I  will,  Jack,"  readily  promised  the 
girl. 

She  picked  up  her  pail  and  went  back  to  the 
milking. 

Her  father  said  no  more.  Her  threats  had 
given  him  food  for  thought.  He  could  not  do 
without  her,  that  was  the  long  and  short  of  it ; 
and  it  would  be  like  losing  his  heart's  blood  to 
give  up  her  money.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to 
see  her  come  back. 

She  sat  once  more  to  her  cow,  in  silence,  too. 

And  all  the  while,  above  and  around  the 
village  of  Bratton  with  its  sadness  of  widow- 
hood and  parting,  smiling  alike  upon  meanness, 
misfortune,  bickering,  and  strife — as  though 
to  say  that  life  might  be  an  idyll  if  men  could 
only  learn — was  growing  over  vale  and  hill  and 
dusty  road,  the  sweetest  summer  day  that  ever 
shone  upon  the  earth. 


Bratton  Revel  41 


CHAPTER  III 
BRATTON  REVEL 

Now,  though  Jacob  Handsford  had  not 
enough  goodness  in  the  heart  of  him,  as  folk 
were  all  agreed,  to  grease  a  gimlet,  but  screwed 
his  rasping  way  through  life,  setting  the  teeth 
of  everybody  on  edge,  and  driving  all  pleasure 
and  peace  of  mind  out  of  the  house — there 
were  ale  and  cakes  enough  in  Bratton  for  all 
that. 

Ursula  thought  so,  as  she  looked  at  herself 
in  the  three-cornered  fragment  of  broken  mir- 
ror, set  up  between  three  stub-nails,  at  the 
height  handiest  for  seeing  her  face  in,  against 
the  whitewashed  side  of  her  window  wall. 
And,  come  what  may,  she  was  determined  to 
sip  and  to  munch  like  the  rest  of  the  world. 
For  sure,  if  you  don't  get  about  and  enjoy 
yourself  whilst  you  be  young,  'tis  too  late  to 
think  of  it  when  you've  a-got  to  hobble  upon 
crutches.  Ah!  the  best  played  fiddle  'pon 
earth  can't  spracken  'ee  up  to  dance  wi'  one 

foot  in  the  grave.    And  as  for  being  cooped  up 

4 


42  A  Tangled  Web 

at  home,  Ursula  would  stand  it  no  longer,  let 
the  old  man  get  so  crabbed  as  he  liked.  Why, 
what  good  to  live  like  that?  She  daren't  so 
much  as  chirpy  when  she  did  sit  to  the  cow. 

Reflections  such  as  these  excited  Ursula. 
Her  mind  was  made  up  and  her  eyes  were 
brighter  than  ever. 

Not  a  word  about  the  revel  had  she  spoken 
all  the  day.  But  she  had  promised  young  Jack 
to  be  there,  and  go  she  meant  to,  whether  her 
father  would  or  no.  If  she  could  but  manage 
to  outwit  him  and  get  away  without  any  words, 
that  was  all  she  cared  about.  There  was  no 
good  in  kicking  up  so  much  fuss.  And  he 
might  stamp  and  rave  as  much  as  he  liked  when 
she  came  back.  She  would  have  been  and  en- 
joyed herself,  so  that  could  make  no  difference 
to  her  then. 

She  cast  an  eager  glance  out  of  the  window. 

The  whole  village  lay  in  full  view  before 
her.  For,  through  the  winding  of  the  way, 
the  pointing  end  of  Jacob  Handsford's  house, 
though  it  lay  against  a  highway,  looked  out 
towards  the  hill. 

On  a  crown  of  the  steep,  high  above  the 
road,  stood  the  little  church  and  graveyard. 


Bratton  Revel  43 

Just  below,  from  the  doorway  of  the  "Lamb 
and  Lark,"  a  village  ale-house  long  ago  for- 
gotten, ay,  for  up  five-and-twenty  yards  or 
more,  the  wayside  was  lined  with  standings, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  fair.  Such  a  sight  of 
people  never,  in  all  her  born  days,  had  Ursula 
clapped  eyes  on.  Such  a  crunching  of  ginger- 
bread and  such  buying  of  ribbons  and  cracking 
of  nuts  for  certain  never  was.  Ursula  took  it 
all  in  quick  enough,  for  though  the  crowd  was 
too  thick  for  her  to  tell  Dick  from  Harry  or 
Tom  from  Dick,  and  too  far  out  of  hearing  for 
anything  but  a  mere  hum  to  reach  her  through 
the  unmended  window-panes,  the  maid  was 
already  there  in  mind,  busy  talking  and  laugh- 
ing with  the  best.  In  the  field  with  the  foot- 
path to  Winterhays,  on  the  shady  side  of  two 
broad-spreading  oaks,  the  folk  were  dancing. 
Two  rows  of  couples,  jigging  it  finely,  and  the 
crowder's  fiddlestick  working  up  and  down 
like  mad. 

Ursula  loved  dancing  dearly. 

She  gave  another  look  in  the  glass  and  ran 
downstairs. 

She  had  put  on  her  white  frock  and  bodice, 
and  tied  up  her  hair  with  a  knot  of  blue  rib-. 


44  A  Tangled  Web 

bons  brought  her  last  May  by  William  from 
Carey  fair.  Her  neck  and  throat,  and  her  arms 
below  the  elbows  were  bare. 

Little  Hannah  Peach,  with  a  cullender  in 
the  hand  of  her,  stared  in  open-mouthed  ad- 
miration, sure  enough,  as  she  came  out  of  the 
dark  passage  into  the  kitchen  on  her  way  to 
the  door. 

"La!  Miss  Urs'la!"  gasped  the  child. 

"Where's  Vather?"  asked  Ursula,  in  a  low, 
quick  whisper. 

"I  seed  'un  by  now,  Miss, Urs'la,  zo  I  did, 
out  along  by  dree-hounds  waste." 

The  maid  was  sharp  as  a  needle.  She  had 
picked  up  the  names  of  all  the  fields  and  places 
already,  though  she  had  only  been  there  a  few 
weeks.  She  understood,  too;  for  she  looked 
quite  knowing,  and  spoke  with  eager  gladness 
to  think,  for  Miss  Urs'la's  sake,  that  the  master 
was  out  of  the  way. 

At  the  answer,  so  readily  given,  the  face  of 
Ursula  Handsford  grew  hard,  and  a  flush  of 
shame  reddened  her  cheek. 

She  knew  her  father  so  well.  She  could 
read  the  secret  thought  that  prompted  almost 
every  step  he  took.  From  very  stinginess  he 


Bratton   Revel  45 

had  crept  out,  thinking  that  friends  or  visitors 
might  chance  on  feast-day  to  drop  in,  and  then, 
if  only  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  he  must  put 
his  best  upon  the  board.  Even  the  relief  of 
finding  she  might  get  away  unbeknown  and 
without  words  could  not  overcome  her  indig- 
nation at  such  meanness. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  her  humiliation  and 
anger  she  was  like  to  laugh  aloud  at  so  much 
care  so  clearly  uncalled  for.  Nobody  wanted 
to  come  there — oh  dear  no!  Nobody  'pon 
earth  was  such  a  fool,  no  fear !  Why,  the  very 
cider  that  they  drank  was  too  sour  to  sell.  Not 
once  in  a  blue  moon  did  any  footstep  out  of 
friendship  cross  the  threshold.  She  could  al- 
most wish  her  father  back  that  minute  to  see 
her  start.  There  would  be  a  grim  pleasure  in 
hearing  him  rave.  She  would  go  on  her  way 
all  the  same,  and  never  answer  a  word — just 
to  make  him  the  more  spiteful. 

Then  her  eye  fell  again  upon  Hannah  Peach, 
still  gazing  in  wonder  and  amazement. 

It  was  not  much,  this  admiration  of  a  pauper 
child,  dazzled  for  the  first  time  by  blue  ribbons 
and  a  white  frock,  but  it  was  sincere.  To  see 
it  softened  Ursula.  There  was  something  kind 


46  A  Tangled  Web 

and  good-natured  always  ready  in  the  heart  of 
her,  and  dearly  she  loved  to  be  admired  and 
liked,  whether  by  man  or  maid.  At  once  it 
brought  her  thoughts  back  to  the  hill,  the  revel, 
and  the  dance. 

Then  she  smiled  upon  Hannah,  who,  after 
all,  put  her  to  do  what  you  would,  was  a  won- 
derful handy,  good  girl.  Ursula's  voice  be- 
came quite  coaxing  and  sweet. 

"You  must  put  out  the  bread  and  cheese, 
Hannah,  just  afore  dark,  the  very  same  as  if  I 
were  here." 

"Iss,  Miss  Urs'la." 

"An'  only  draw  the  little  brown  cup  o'  cider, 
an'  not  quite  full.  For  the  maister  might  not 
drink  it  all,  an'  then  he'd  grumble  at  'ee,  Han- 
nah, 'bout  the  waste." 

"Iss,  Miss  Urs'la." 

"An'  bring  it  steady  so  as  not  to  slop  a  drop 
'pon  the  vloor,  whatever  you  do  do." 

"No,  Miss  Urs'la." 

"An*  zay,  when  he  do  ax  'ee,  that  Miss 
Urs'la  is  gone  up  to  the  widow  White's." 

"Iss,  Miss  Urs'la." 

Ursula  paused  a  moment  to  turn  over  in  her 
mind  whether  there  might  be  anything  more. 


Bratton  Revel  47 

"Very  well,  then,  Hannah,"  sfre  said,  at  last, 
in  a  tone  of  great  encouragement.  "Mind 
what  you  be  about ;  an'  do  your  very  best ;  an' 
zee  the  geese  be  home;  an'  watch  the  turkeys 
go  up  to  roost ;  an'  be  sure  to  turn  the  kay  'pon 
milk-house  door  when  you  do  go  out,  or  the 
cats  'ull  be  in.  An'  if  you  do  all  well,  as  I 
verily  do  believe  you  will,  Hannah,  I  shall 
bring  'ee  home  something.  Something  for 
your  very  own  zelf.  Something  you'll  like." 

Then,  with  a  mysterious  nod  which  left  a 
vague  assurance  of  untold  munificence,  Ursula 
hastened  out  of  the  door. 

Intoxicated  with  a  promise  leaving  so  much 
to  the  imagination,  Hannah  followed  so  far  as 
the  porch  and  watched  her  mistress  up  the  hill. 
Never  in  her  life  had  she  possessed  anything 
of  her  own.  Even  the  milking-pinney,  put  on 
with  such  pride  the  day  she  left  the  workhouse 
to  go  out  to  work,  was  only  hers  to  wear.  It 
belonged  to  Jacob  Handsford,  as  he  let  her 
know  pretty  sharp  that  day  she  strent  it  with 
a  nail,  right  down  through,  running  out  to 
drive  back  the  pigs.  Hannah  could  not  take 
her  wondering  eyes  from  the  retreating  figure 
of  Ursula,  as  the  white  bodice  and  hair  of 


48  A  Tangled  Web 

golden  red  gleamed  in  the  sunlight  above  the 
hedge-row  bush.  It  was  a  vision  of  everything 
on  earth  that  Hannah  longed  for — everything 
she  had  not  got.  She  loved  and  worshipped 
with  all  her  heart  this  young  mistress  who,  of 
all  the  world,  alone  was  kind.  She  stood  like 
one  entranced,  until  the  goddess,  reaching  the 
outskirts  of  the  revel,  mingled  and  was  lost 
amongst  the  crowd. 

Ursula  walked  quickly,  for  one  desire  above 
all  others  was  uppermost  in  her  mind — to  fall 
in  with  young  Jack  White  and  have  a  talk  as 
they  had  agreed. 

She  had  been  forced  to  wait  until  after  milk- 
ing before  she  could  go  up  to  put  on  her  frock. 
She  was  late.  Like  enough,  he  would  be  out 
about  by  now.  A  tumbler,  glittering  in  span- 
gles, had  spread  a  cloth  upon  the  road  and  was 
tying  himself  into  knots.  A  group  of  giggling 
maidens  standing  by,  shouted  to  Ursie  Hands- 
ford  to  come  and  see.  One  and  another  called 
her  by  name,  and  asked,  in  joke,  whether  she 
had  lost  anything  and  where  she  was  running 
so  fast.  But,  nodding  and  laughing  all  round, 
Ursula  pushed  her  way  through  the  throng, 
scarcely  stopping,  as  some  folk  said,  to  so  much 


Bratton  Revel  49 

as  turn  the  head  o'  her.  And  so,  by  the  foot- 
path across  the  field,  she  came  to  Winterhays. 

The  front  door,  studded  with  great  nails, 
stood  hospitably  open.  A  hubbub  of  laughter 
and  voices,  high  in  merriment  and  talking  all 
together,  came  from  within.  For  the  sake  of 
good  manners,  she  lifted  the  iron  latch-ring 
and  rapped  upon  the  door.  But  la !  if  she  had 
knocked  till  doomsday,  nobody  would  have 
given  heed ;  and  so  she  walked  straight  in  with- 
out waiting  for  anyone  to  come.  She  was 
sure  of  a  welcome.  Not  merely  because  the 
Whites  were  hearty  people  and  neighbourly,  to 
whom  you  could  never  come  amiss,  but  she  had 
walked  with  William  now  for  more  than  a 
twelvemonth  and  was  almost  like  one  of  the 
household. 

The  kitchen  was  a  crowd  of  company.  It 
was  open  house,  sure  enough.  Folk  came  in 
and  went  out,  just  as  it  pleased  their  fancies. 
Visitors  had  become  so  plentiful  that  all  the 
chairs,  upstairs  and  down,  could  not  provide  a 
perch  for  everybody  at  once.  So  the  young 
must  stand,  to  be  sure,  and  let  women-folk  and 
the  aged  quat  down  to  rest  their  huckles. 
Why,  the  maidens  were  even  sitting  in  one 


50  A  Tangled  Web 

another's  laps.  And  as  for  a  seat  at  the  board 
to  get  a  bit  and  a  sup,  they  must  watch  to  catch 
places  as  one  after  another  did  get  up. 

All  this  Ursula  gathered  at  a  glance,  as  soon 
as  she  got  inside  the  door. 

In  those  days,  the  village  revel  was  the  feast 
of  all  the  year,  and  relatives  flocked  to  it  from 
far  and  near.  To-day,  the  widow  White, 
bustling  about  in  her  best  Sunday  weeds,  be- 
neath a  face  of  smiles  carried  a  world  of  care. 
But  her  quick  eye  noted  with  satisfaction  that 
nobody  of  consequence  was  missing.  All  the 
Puckeridges,  the  Moggs,  and  the  Tutchinses 
of  any  account  were  there — to  say  nothing  of 
Malachi  Webb,  who  always  pushed  himself 
and  his  knock-knees  everywhere,  though  only 
a  second  cousin  by  marriage  and  nothing  by 
blood.  Aunt  Rebecca  Eliza  Mogg  had  come 
with  all  her  five.  And  her  sister,  Ann,  bent  on 
a  holiday,  had  brought  the  baby  in  arms. 

This  was  as  it  should  be,  for  Rizpah  White, 
that  year,  had  done  her  best. 

The  floor  of  beaten  clay  was  strewed  with 
rushes  and  sweet-smelling  herbs.  The  hearth 
was  hidden  with  fresh  green  boughs  and  yel- 
low flags  brought  up  from  the  valley.  But  the 


Bratton  Revel  51 

dresser  shelves  were  bare.  For  every  wooden 
trencher  and  every  bit  of  ware  were  on  the  long 
oaken  bench,  with  a  rump  of  beef,  a  spare-rib 
of  pork,  a  famous  ham  that  had  hung  twelve 
months  to  dry  in  the  chimney — to  say  nothing 
of  custards,  and,  in  the  middle,  a  great  bowl  of 
furmity,  half  as  big  as  a  house.  The  relatives 
were  ranged  upon  each  side  on  long  stools  and 
ate — oh,  how  they  ate!  And,  with  every 
mouthful,  the  widow,  bustling  around,  popped 
in  a  word. 

"Come,  Uncle  John  Puckeridge,  you  don't 
get  on.  Now  you  ha'n't  a-got  what  you  like. 
I  do  know  you  ha'n't.  There,  Simon  Mogg, 
now  do  gie  your  uncle  John  Puckeridge  a  bit 
more  fat  to  his  lean.  Cousin  Malachi  Webb, 
if  you  can't  help  yourself,  you'll  be  like  to  go 
short,  zo  don't  'ee  bide  an'  gapey,  whatever  you 
do  do.  What,  Girt-uncle  Tutchins,  you  ha'n't 
never  a-done!  Why,  you've  a-eat  nothing. 
There,  I  be  sorry  'tis  no  better,  sure " 

So  she  went  on,  her  voice  rising  in  confi- 
dence above  the  clatter  of  the  feast,  and  then 
sinking  into  solicitous  anxiety  lest  more  might 
have  been  thought  of  or  expected. 

To  understand  aright  both  the  height  and 


52  A  Tangled  Web 

the  humility  of  this  good  woman's  pride,  you 
must  know  that  Rizpah  White  was  a  Pucker- 
idge  born,  and  brimful  of  the  self-esteem  of 
that  ancient,  respectable  race. 

Before  she  wedded  with  William  White,  she 
had  learned  for  certain,  on  the  indisputable 
authority  of  all  her  kin,  that  no  variety  of  hu- 
mankind that  ever  trod  shoe-leather,  or  ever 
shall,  could  be  better  than  a  Puckeridge.  You 
see,  all  the  Puckeridges  had  such  sense.  If  any 
man,  not  being  a  Puckeridge,  thought  differ- 
ent to  any  Puckeridge,  that  man  was  wrong. 
Later  years,  alas!  had  brought  a  somewhat 
broader  view  of  life.  Being  pinched  for  money 
had  something  to  do  with  it — and  the  growing 
up  of  sons.  For  now  that  William  and  John 
were  men,  she  saw  quite  clearly  that  the  Whites 
were  just  as  good. 

And  the  Whites  were  not  out  o'  Winterhays 
— not  yet. 

Of  all  her  doubts  and  cares,  this  was  the 
head  and  chief:  to  hide  her  poverty  from  her 
own  folk,  and  wear  a  good  face  over  her 
troubles.  Rizpah  could  not  a-bear  that  people 
should  go  away  and  talk.  And  relatives — well, 
say  what  you  will,  relatives  do  come  a-purpose 


Bratton  Revel  53 

to  eye  out  and  gape  in  wonder  over  the  very 
leastest  little  thing.  And,  of  course,  everybody 
'pon  earth — that  is  to  say,  everybody  within 
five  miles  o'  Bratton — had  heard  hundreds  of 
times  that  poor  William  White  had  not  done 
so  wonderful  sprightly,  nor  left  his  wife  and 
sons  anything  too  well  off.  Still,  for  all  that, 
the  Puckeridges,  the  Moggses,  and  the  Tutch- 
inses,  when  they  trooped  in  to  the  funeral, 
were  all  proper  a-sucked  in.  There  was  a 
plenty  o'  victuals,  thank  God !  but  no  will  to  be 
read.  And  so  there  was,  to-day.  Had  it  been 
the  last  bit  and  sup  in  the  cupboard,  the  widow 
would  have  put  it  out.  Better  to  pinch  for 
weeks  than  to  look  poor.  And  this  sort  of 
pride,  if  it  left  a  bare  shelf  for  to-morrow,  kept 
her  from  grumbling,  too. 

She  chanced  to  glance  that  way  just  as 
Ursula  came  through  the  doorway. 

"Hullo  then,  Ursie.  An'  how's  Ursie 
Handsford  ?"  she  cried,  with  the  welcome  ever 
ready  for  any  who  crossed  her  threshold. 

Every  head  turned  at  once.  Great-uncle 
Tutchins,  at  that  moment  rising  from  the  table, 
stopped  dusting  crumbs  from  the  creases  of  his 
waistcoat,  and  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw. 


54  A  Tangled  Web 

"Haw !  haw !  Why  'tis  never  Ursie  Hands- 
ford,  then,"  he  roared. 

He  toddled  into  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
floor  and  looked  the  maid  up  and  down  with  his 
wicked  little  slit  of  a  red  eye,  as  if  to  make  quite 
sure. 

"An'  eet  'tis,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the 
company  with  an  air  of  conviction.  "Now  do 
'ee  know  what  I  thought?  Bailed  if  I  didn't 
think  'twere  a  sunbeam  a-coming  in  so  soft 
then.  I  did,  sure." 

A  merry  little  round  man  of  three  score 
years  and  ten,  great-uncle  Tutchins,  when  there 
were  maidens  about,  was  even  now  a  sad  wag. 

Now,  though  Jacob  Handsford,  with  his  un- 
neighbourly  ways,  made  no  friends,  he  and  his 
were  objects  of  interest  to  all  the  country 
round.  The  knowledge  that  he  must  be  saving 
every  day  of  his  life,  though  it  begot  dislike, 
filled  every  mind  with  awe.  Fireside  gossip 
never  wearied  of  measuring  his  hoard.  There 
was  the  farm,  the  scattered  bits  of  land  of  his 
own,  and  the  money  in  odd  corners  out  to  use, 
nobody  knew  where — except  one  or  two  pres- 
ent who  had  secretly  borrowed  a  few  pounds  of 
which  they  did  not  tell.  And  money,  never 


Bratton  Revel  55 

touched,  will  breed  as  fast  as  rabbits  left  alone. 
Why,  Jacob  Handsford,  please  God  to  spare 
him  long  life,  must  die  worth  thousands.  And 
he  had  no  call  to  leave  so  much  as  a  penny- 
piece  away  from  Ursula.  Yet,  for  all  that,  he 
might.  For  he  hated  William  White  like 
poison — everybody  knew  that. 

So  every  mother's  son  around  Bratton  was 
aware  of  a  complication  growing  up  in  their 
midst,  and  went  in  wonder  how  things  would 
turn  out.  Some  had  offered  to  bet  a  guinea 
that  Ursula  would  marry  her  fancy,  money  or 
none.  But  some  laughed  that  William  White 
might  surely  wear  the  willow  if  he  stayed  away 
too  long  at  sea. 

Thus  the  arrival  of  the  girl  aroused  such  in- 
terest that  mastication  was  for  the  moment  sus- 
pended, and  all  the  company  stared  and  grinned 
at  great-uncle  Tutchins's  foolery.  As  to  Ur- 
sula, she  looked  as  pleased  as  the  rest. 

Then  uncle  Puckeridge  chimed  in  in  the 
same  strain. 

"Now,  I  were  uneasy  like,"  he  began,  slowly 
raising  his  left  hand — with  a  two-pronged, 
buck-handled  fork  clutched  in  his  fingers — and 
thoughtfully  feeling  with  outstretched  thumb 


56  A  Tangled  Web 

for  the  roughness  of  a  growing  beard  on  his 
shaven  jowl.  "I  really  couldn't  enjoy  my 
victuals  for  a  thought  o'  something  a-wanting. 
I  zaid  to  myself,  'What  is  it  now?'  Anji  I 
zaid,  '  'Pon  my  life,  then,  I  can't  tell,  but  for 
certain  'tis  a  something/  But  there,  now  'tis 
all  complete." 

He  waved  both  knife  and  fork  to  the  peril 
of  his  neighbours,  as  he  leaned  back,  as  red  as  a 
turkey-cock,  and  chuckled,  and  choked,  to  the 
peril  of  himself. 

Then  cousin  Simon  Mogg  had  a  word  to  say. 

Nobody  on  earth  ever  had  relative  wiser  than 
cousin  Simon  Mogg.  He  knew  both  sides  of  a 
penny,  for  all  he  looked  so  daft.  The  man 
must  get  up  early  who  would  get  round  the 
blind  side  of  cousin  Simon  Mogg.  For  sure, 
he  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he  looked,  and  that, 
in  Bratton,  was  the  loftiest  wisdom  to  which 
the  human  mind  could  ever  rise. 

A  fair  man  of  five-and-forty,  with  freckles 
all  over  his  face,  and  a  weak,  soft  beard  like 
wool,  he  had  a  squeaky  little  voice  and  looked 
staid  beyond  his  years.  "Now  I'll  warr'nt," 
he  began,  screwing  his  mouth  on  one  side  and 
speaking  only  with  his  lips,  "I'll  warr'nt  I  do 


Bratton  Revel  57 

know  what  Ursie  have  a-got  in  mind,  then." 
He  gazed  all  round  with  an  air  of  having  made 
a  great  discovery  which,  upon  a  little  persua- 
sion, he  would  be  quite  ready  to  impart. 

"Got  in  mind  ?"  roared  great-uncle  Tutchins, 
pointing  a  fat  finger  at  Ursula.  "What  should 
a  fine,  handsome  young  ooman  have  in  mind, 
then,  but  to  go  a-dancing  an'  hop  round  to  the 
tune  o'  thik  viddle  ?  Eh  ?  Upzides !" — Great- 
uncle  Tutchins  certainly  was  a  wonder  for  his 
years,  for  with  the  word  he  leapt  like  a  hop- 
frog — "In  an'  out" — To  and  fro  he  danced  be- 
fore Ursula,  first  on  one  toe,  then  on  the  other, 
as  light  as  a  feather — "Down  the  middle."  He 
caught  her  by  the  hand  and,  holding  it  above 
his  head,  they  jigged  across  the  rush-covered 
floor  and  plump  up  against  the  blue  back  of 
Malachi  Webb. 

"Ay,  Ursie  have  a-got  no  lead  'pon  the  heels 
o'  her,  I'll  go  bail,"  cried  uncle  Puckeridge. 

"Not  she.  She's  so  sprack  as  a  kitten," 
panted  great-uncle  Tutchins,  wiping  his  brow. 

"Ay,  or  a  young  lambkin  when  the  zun  do 
smile  down  warm  upon  the  back  o'  un." 

"But,  Ursie,  you  be  late.  You  be  late,  I 
tell  'ee." 

5 


5  8  A  Tangled  Web 

Whether  he  admonished  or  played  the  fool, 
everybody  laughed  at  great-uncle  Tutchins. 
He  had  such  a  way,  with  never  so  much  as  a 
smile  upon  the  face  of  him,  that  folk  were 
bound  to  laugh  when  there  was  really  nothing 
to  laugh  at.  And,  at  Bratton  revel,  they  were  all 
so  jolly,  with  their  little  differences  forgotten 
or  made  up,  and  every  morsel-bit  of  envy  and 
ill-will  thrown  to  the  winds.  So  that,  what 
with  the  shower  of  compliments  that  pattered 
down  as  brisk  as  April  rain,  Ursula  was  quite 
pleased  and  flattered.  She  showed  it,  too.  For 
she  was  all  smiles  and  her  eyes  as  bright  as 
morning.  It  was  such  a  change  after  the 
grinding  life  at  home  where  good-humor  was 
as  scarce  as  if  it  cost  ready  money. 

Then  cousin  Malachi  Webb  must  needs  put 
in  his  spoke. 

"Ah !  but  Ursie  were  fo'ced  to  milkey.  She 
were  proud  as  punch,  I'll  go  bail,  when  she 
carr'ed  in  thik  last  pail.  'Tis  to  be  hoped,  sure 
enough,  she  didden  toss  her  head  too  high  an' 
drow  down  pail  an'  all — there — right  'pon  the 
stones  by  the  milk-house  door." 

The  picture  of  such  mishap  was  clear  to  all. 
The  mirth,  since  everybody  was  so  happy,  be- 


Bratton  Revel  59 

came  boisterous — out  of  all  reason  with  the 
cause,  as  it  were. 

A  suspicion  flashed  across  the  girl's  mind 
that  the  young  Jack  White  might  have  whis- 
pered a  word  of  what  he  saw.  Her  counte- 
nance fell.  The  smiles  faded  from  her  cheek. 
Her  only  reply  was  a  glance  of  sudden  anger 
fit  to  curdle  the  blood  of  cousin  Malachi  Webb. 

"Heart  alive!  Now  you've  affronted  the 
maid.  I  wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes,  Malachi 
Webb,  not  if  you  should  ax  her  to  dance.  Gie 
tin  a  piece  o'  your  mind,  my  dear.  Such 
nothern  talk  as  that." 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  twinkled  with  fun  and 
shook  all  over  himself  with  delight.  Bear- 
baiting,  cudgel-playing,  cock-fighting  were  the 
joys  of  his  life ;  and  to  set  folk  a-sparring  was 
better  to  him  than  meat  and  drink. 

But  the  girl  recovered  her  temper  so  far  as 
it  was  shown  in  her  face. 

"La!  I  don't  care  a  pin  about  Malachi 
Webb,"  she  laughed,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"Then  run  out,  there's  a  dear,  and  enjoy 
yourself." 

"  'Tis  better  out  o'  doors  than  in,  any  day  o' 
the  week,"  cried  she,  turning  towards  the  door. 


60  A  Tangled  Web 

Then,  without  waiting  for  more  words,  she 
acted  upon  the  old  man's  advice  and  went  out. 

The  home-field  was  by  this  time  thronged 
with  people,  for  folk  had  left  the  standings  in 
the  road  to  come  in  and  join  in  the  dancing  or 
watch  the  sports.  There  was  to  be  cudgel- 
playing  on  a  stage,  and  wrestling,  racing  in 
sacks,  and  grinning  through  a  horse-collar  for 
a  prize.  But  Ursula  was  ill  at  ease.  She  went 
wandering  from  one  delight  to  another,  but 
took  no  joy  in  any  of  them.  She  was  certain 
Jack  White  had  told.  She  knew  well  enough 
how  easily  things  leak  out.  Just  a  whisper  in 
the  ear,  with  a  promise  to  let  it  go  no  further, 
and  then,  by  next  day,  it  had  run  like  wildfire. 
Above  everything,  Ursula  hated  to  be  talked 
about.  Her  father's  ways  had  made  her  very 
sore,  and  already  she  pictured  the  neighbours 
smiling  behind  her  back  whenever  she  might 
chance  to  pass  down  street.  But  where  was 
Jack  White?  Not  a  sign  of  him  anywhere 
could  she  see.  That  made  her  madder  still. 
It  was  he  who  said,  "Come  up  to  house !"  She 
never  offered  it. 

She  made  her  way  out  of  the  thickest  of  the 
crowd  and  along  the  path  into  the  road. 


Bratton  Revel  61 

Now,  when  everything  was  quiet  with  the 
pedlars  and  at  the  tradesmen's  stalls,  was  the 
time  to  look  around  and  choose  the  promised 
fairing  to  carry  home  to  Hannah.  Ursula  was 
kind  at  heart.  She  would  pick  out  something 
downright  pretty  now  to  please  her.  Poor 
little  maid ! 

Just  above  the  village  ale-house  was  a  nar- 
row strip  of  garden  running  alongside  the 
road,  with  a  bower  at  one  end,  furnished  with 
a  bench  and  stools.  Scarcely  had  Ursula 
passed  this  summer-house  when,  suddenly,  a 
sound  of  voices,  high  in  dispute  and  talking  all 
together,  fell  upon  her  ears. 

"  Tis  a  lie,"  cried  one.     "I  tell  'ee  'tis  a  lie." 

And  with  the  same,  young  Jack  stepped  out 
into  the  open,  full  in  view  above  the  hedgerow. 

He  had  thrown  aside  his  smock  for  the  holi- 
day and  was  in  his  best — a  broad-tailed  coat 
that  had  been  his  father's,  of  dark  brown  West 
of  England  cloth,  with  cuffs  six  inches  wide. 
For  Jack  was  a  bit  of  a  buck  in  his  way,  as 
many  of  the  Whites  had  been  before.  But  his 
face  was  flushed.  His  teeth  clenched.  In  his 
fist  he  still  held  four  cards.  With  an  oath  he 
dashed  them  down  upon  the  ground. 


6a  A  Tangled  Web 

Ho!  ho!  So  Master  Johnny  had  been  a- 
gaming,  then — and  lost.  A  smile  just  flickered 
around  Ursula's  red  lips.  She  had  him,  tit  for 
tat.  If  this  were  known  and  should  chance  to 
come  to  the  ear  of  the  constable,  Master  Jacky 
wouldn't  like  that. 

Their  eyes  met.  She  gave  him  a  mischiev- 
ous nod  and  was  quick  to  mark  his  annoyance 
at  being  found  out.  But  he  put  on  the  best 
front  he  could,  stepped  back  into  the  bower  for 
his  hat,  gave  a  whistle,  and,  a  minute  later,  was 
by  her  side  in  the  road.  Close  at  his  heels,  but 
hidden  until  now  by  the  garden  hedge,  followed 
a  brindled  bull-dog,  very  heavy  in  the  body  and 
short  in  the  leg. 

"Don't  'ee  ever  zay  a  word,  Ursie,"  he 
begged  of  her  at  once.  "But  there,  I  do  know 
you  won't." 

"Then  why  have  you  a-let  out  about  me?" 

"I  ha'n't." 

She  held  up  a  finger.  "You  told  Malachi 
Webb." 

"Never  a  sound,  Ursie,"  he  declared,  "to  any 
kirsten  soul." 

"Sure?" 

"So  true  as  the  light." 


Bratton   Revel  63 

"Sure  an'  sure  an'  double-door  ?" 

She  looked  straight  at  him.  She  was  so 
deep  in  earnest  that  the  meaningless  words  took 
on  the  solemn  nature  of  an  oath. 

"  Ton  my  life,"  he  swore. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth. 
Her  misgivings  set  at  rest,  she  was  now  all 
eagerness  to  get  back  to  the  field.  But  she  was 
older  that  he,  and  so,  as  they  went,  she  talked 
to  him,  as  it  were,  for  his  good. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  a-carding  for  then, 
Jack?  You've  a-got  no  loose  money  to  lose. 
An'  poor  William  forced  to  go  to  sea.  "Pis  too 
bad,  Jack.  So  'tis." 

He  looked  quite  crestfallen,  and  had  not  a 
word  to  say. 

She  found  delight  in  scolding  since  he  took 
it  so  well,  and,  under  the  circumstances,  there 
was  so  much  sense  in  it,  too. 

"An'  then  you  mus'  needs  be  running  about 
wherever  there's  a  bull  or  a  bear  to  be  baited. 
I  can't  think  how  you  can  like  to  do  it.  I  be 
ashamed  o'  'ee,  Jack — I  be.  An'  spend  you 
must,  for  certain,  wherever  you  do  go.  La! 
Jack.  How  can  you  keep  such  an  ugly  thing 
of  a  dog  for  no  purpose  but  to ?" 


64  A  Tangled  Web 

This  was  too  much  for  young  Jack. 

"I  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  Ursie,"  he  cut  her  off 
short.  "He's  the  handsomest  thing  in  all 
Somerset,  but  one — so  there.  Come  on  an' 
zee  un.  He'll  go  straight,  an'  never  let  go  so 
long  as  teeth  can  hold,  an'  never  make  a  sound 
— 'ood  'ee,  Holdvast?"  He  stooped  to  stroke 
the  beast.  "No,  not  if  you  did  tear  un  limb 
from  limb.  Come  on.  'Tis  a'most  time, 
now." 

"I  do  hate  to  watch  it,"  cried  the  girl.  But, 
for  all  that,  she  quickened  her  pace  and  they 
went  along  together  as  merry  as  crickets. 

The  people,  by  this  time,  had  already  begun 
to  make  their  way  to  a  small  coombe  in  the  hill- 
side, and  to  take  places,  some  sitting,  some 
standing  around.  In  the  middle  was  a  patch 
of  level  grass,  towards  which  cousin  Simon 
Mogg  and  Malachi  Webb,  in  white  shirts,  were 
leading  a  large,  red  bull  that  pulled  and 
dragged  and  snorted  as  he  went.  But,  willy- 
nilly,  they  got  him  along  and,  before  Jack  and 
Ursula  were  there,  had  made  him  fast  to  a  ring 
in  an  oaken  stake  set  deep  and  firm  in  the 
ground. 

It  was  a  sight  to  terrify  a  faint  heart — this 


Bratton  Revel  65 

huge  beast,  as  he  snorted  and  bellowed  with 
rage  at  seeing  so  many  folk,  and  well  knowing 
what  was  to  come.  Sometimes  he  made  a  rush, 
may  be  six  or  eight  yards,  hfe  tether's  length, 
and  stamped  and  then  with  lowered  head  tried 
to  tear  up  the  turf  and  toss  it  in  the  air.  But 
the  tips  of  his  horns  had  been  cut  off  lest  he 
should  gore  the  dogs.  Then  all  the  faces 
round  the  coombe  grew  eager  with  excitement 
longing  for  the  sport  to  begin. 

As  they  drew  quite  near,  Ursula  dropped  a 
step  behind.  But,  ashamed  to  show  fear  there 
in  the  face  of  the  crowd,  she  kept  on,  although 
Jack  pushed  forward  to  the  very  front,  as  he 
needs  must  to  set  his  dog.  So  the  girl  was 
standing  very  close  indeed. 

It  was  true  she  hated  it.  The  noise  and 
fierceness  of  the  bull,  although  she  knew  he  was 
tied  up,  made  her  tremble  in  spite  of  herself. 
The  thud  of  his  hoof  upon  the  ground  brought 
her  heart  into  her  mouth.  For  Ursula  had 
imagination  to  raise  dangers  before  her  mind 
more  than  her  eyes  could  see.  Besides,  she 
was  all  for  gaiety  and  would  rather  have  been 
dancing — of  course  she  would.  Yet,  being 
there,  although  she  was  wont  to  turn  sick  at 


66  A  Tangled  Web 

sight  of  blood,  there  was  such  a  fascination  in 
the  sport  that  she  could  not  help  looking. 

The  first  to  be  let  go  was  a  bitch  belonging  to 
Malachi  Webb,  and  she  leapt  at  the  bull  fair 
and  square,  but  broke  her  hold  and  fell  under 
his  breast.  Then  he,  smarting  from  the 
scratch  of  her  teeth,  and  in  the  first  frenzy  of 
his  rage,  trampled  upon  her  with  all  his  might. 
It  made  Ursula  hold  her  breath  to  see  how  he 
turned  the  white  of  his  wicked  eye.  The 
bitch,  mangled,  and  dragging  a  broken  leg, 
crept  out  behind,  and  with  a  yelp  or  two 
crawled  out  of  reach.  Then  everybody  of 
Bratton,  always  ready  to  laugh  at  Malachi,  set 
up  a  jeer  at  his  cur. 

Next  came  the  turn  of  Jack  White. 

The  dog  sprang  a  good  six  feet  or  more  and 
seized  the  bull  by  the  nose.  Truly  the  boasts 
of  his  owner  were  not  vain.  Holdfast  was 
as  good  as  his  name.  Neither  shaking,  nor 
lifting,  nor  crushing  against  the  ground  could 
make  him  let  go.  For  he  was  cunning,  too, 
and  writhed  out  of  the  way  when  the  bull  bored 
down  with  his  head.  The  people  clapped ;  then 
they  cheered ;  and,  at  last,  there  was  an  uproar 
that  might  have  been  heard  at  Staverdale, 


B ration  Revel  67 

Then  a  thing  happened  that  was  the  talk  of 
Bratton  for  many  a  year. 

Out  of  breath  and  out  of  heart,  the  bull  stood 
still.  Except  for  the  heaving  chest  and  quiver- 
ing flank,  it  was  like  a  carven,  painted  image 
set  up  for  show.  And  so  they  stood,  until, 
after  a  minute  or  two,  out  of  very  quietness,  the 
dog  grew  tired  and  dropped  off. 

In  an  instant,  the  bull  had  got  him  on  his 
horns  and  tossed  him — ay,  the  height  of  a 
good-sized  hay-rick,  and  right  to  the  other  side 
of  the  level  grass. 

The  dog  was  high  in  the  air,  head  down- 
wards, with  his  legs  outstretched  against  the 
sky,  and  like  enough  to  break  his  back  with 
such  a  fall. 

Then,  quick  as  thought,  young  Jack  rushed 
in — past  the  bull — across  the  green — and  just 
in  time  to  catch  the  falling  "Holdvast"  in  his 
arms.  And  need  he  had  to  be  quick  indeed; 
for  the  bull,  charging  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
twice  his  tether's  length,  followed  close  at  his 
heels. 

There  was  a  sound  very  like  the  crack  of  a 
whip,  but  loud  as  a  gun. 

With  the  weight  of  his  rush,  the  collar  that 


68  A  Tangled  Web 

held  the  bull  had  snapped  away  from  the  rope, 
and  the  mad  beast  was  free. 

To  Ursula,  all  this  was  but  a  glance;  and 
then,  the  folk  were  running  all  ways  at  once — 
women  screaming — crying  to  their  children — 
and  men,  as  they  got  far  away  and  out  of  dan- 
ger, shouting  to  those  who  were  near  to  "Stop 
him,"  as  if  that  were  easy  to  be  done. 

Ursula  ran  and  screamed  like  the  rest,  only, 
being  so  close,  she  kept  turning  her  head  to 
look  over  her  shoulder  in  fear  of  what  was  to 
happen.  Thus  she  saw  it  all. 

The  bull,  checked  as  he  came  upon  the  rope 
when  it  broke,  fell  forward  upon  his  knees. 

Up  in  an  instant,  horns  down  to  the  ground, 
tail  stiff  as  a  pump-handle,  with  all  his  might  he 
galloped  at  Jack  White.  And  would  have  had 
him,  too,  in  a  trice.  But,  just  in  the  nick  of 
time,  Jack  dodged  aside.  The  bull,  with  his 
eyes  shut,  went  blundering  by.  Then  turned 
off  short  and  ran  after  great-uncle  Tutchins 
whom  elderly  nimbleness  could  never  have 
saved  from  a  better  world  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  bit  of  real  cleverness. 

Young  Jack  caught  the  bull  by  the  tail,  and 
the  life  of  great-uncle  Tutchins  was  spared. 


Bratton  Revel  69 

Round  and  round  they  spun  as  if  they  were 
dancing  a  reel,  whilst  Malachi  Webb's  cur  came 
and  barked  like  a  sheep-dog.  And  Holdfast 
ran  in  without  a  sound,  but  fell  off  at  once. 
Then  the  bull,  fairly  distraught  to  find  himself 
tackled  in  so  strange  a  way,  set  out  straight  as 
a  line  right  down  the  hill.  Hard  as  he  could 
go,  he  went  (young  Jack  hanging  back  as  much 
as  he  might,  but  holding  fast  with  both  hands), 
and  fell  blindly  into  the  gully  that  parted  Jacob 
Handsford's  wheat  from  the  bottom  of  the 
home-field. 

So  there  was  an  end  to  the  danger,  and  all 
the  rest  was  talk.  For  every  tongue  began  to 
wag  about  what  might  have  happened,  and 
young  Jack  was  a  hero  to  be  sure.  And  great- 
uncle  Tutchins  felt  truly  grateful  with  all  his 
heart,  although  over-exertion  after  a  heavy 
meal  had  brought  on  a  hacking  cough,  and  he 
was  "terrible  much  afeard,"  as  he  owned,  him- 
self, "that  he  had  run  so  vast  thik  night  that  he 
mus'  goo  broken-winded  the  rest  of  his  days." 

The  fiddle  had  struck  up  again,  and  many  a 
young  couple  was  footing  it  briskly  in  the  long 
shadow  to  the  east  of  the  oak  trees  by  the  time 
Jack  White  came  back  to  the  side  of  Ursula. 


70  A  Tangled  Web 

He  was  warm  with  exertion,  and  blushing 
all  over  his  face,  as  they  say,  to  find  himself  so 
much  bepraised. 

"Come  on,  Ursie!"  he  cried,  by  way  of 
asking  her  to  dance. 

"Come  on,"  she  answered,  springing  to  her 
feet  at  once. 

So  they  stood  up  for  a  reel.  On  and  on,  up 
and  down  went  the  fiddlestick  under  the  chin 
of  the  crowder  as  if  it  would  never  stop.  For 
when  a  Somerset  fiddler's  elbow  is  well  oiled 
with  cider,  there  is  no  more  end  to  the  music 
than  to  the  noise  of  a  running  brook.  And  the 
good  folk  of  Bratton,  on  revel  days,  never 
grew  leg-weary  or  wanted  to  sit  down,  but 
hopped  and  frisked,  in  and  out,  and  found  and 
back,  and  then  twined  with  such  good  heart 
that,  verily  and  truly,  in  all  likelihood  they 
would  have  been  hopping  and  frisking  now  if, 
by  a  merciful  Providence,  a  string  hadn'  a- 
snapped,  and  brought  things  to  a  sudden  stand- 
still. 

Yet  even  then  the  fiddler  did  not  lose  his 
head.  Quick  as  a  bird,  he  made  the  fiddle 
squeak,  squeak,  squeak,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
little  pig  pinched  by  the  tail. 


Bratton  Revel  71 

Then  every  girl  cried  "Oh!"  as  if  she 
thought  she  was  going  to  be  hurt.  For,  at  the 
sign,  every  man  turned  round  and  kissed  his 
maid  as  he  had  good  right  to  do.  And  if 
young  Jack  kissed  Ursula,  why,  she  would 
have  thought  him  a  fool  if  he  hadn't — and 
sure,  he  was  almost  a  brother-law,  so  there 
could  be  no  great  harm  in  that. 

They  strolled  around  under  the  trees  to  cool. 
It  was  most  terrible  hot,  and  Jack  took  off  his 
coat  just  as  if  he  had  been  going  to  work,  and 
hung  it  out  of  the  way  on  one  of  the  lower 
limbs  of  the  oak.  Ursula  fanned  herself  with 
her  "handkercher."  But  they  were  ready 
enough,  be  sure,  before  the  crowder  could  get 
in  a  new  string  and  screw  his  fiddle  well  up  in 
tune. 

"Come  on,"  said  he. 

"Come  on,  then,"  she  echoed. 

Ursula  never  enjoyed  a  dance  so  much  in 
her  life. 

But  the  day  was  passing  by.  A  gentle  twi- 
light came  creeping  over  hill  and  wood  and 
dale.  The  golden  sunlight  faded  from  the 
grass,  and  the  last  gleam  from  the  western  side 
of  the  square,  red-brick  chimneys  jutting  above 


72  A  Tangled  Web 

the  village  thatch.  Yet  it  did  not  become  dark. 
The  great  full  moon  had  risen  behind  the 
homestead  of  Winterhays  straight  in  the  face 
of  the  setting  sun.  So,  before  they  had  quite 
drifted  into  the  dumps  o'  night,  everything 
was  shining  silver  clear  in  the  bright  moon- 
light. 

Then,  many  of  the  quieter  folk  began  to  bid 
"good-bye,"  and  think  of  turning  homewards. 
But  Ursula,  carried  away  with  the  delight  of 
movement  and  the  freedom  of  unfettered 
mirth,  went  on  dancing  long  after  the  dew  lay 
wet  upon  the  turf.  It  was  such  a  change  from 
the  narrowness  and  everlasting  fault-finding, 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  of  her  niggard  life. 
Just  for  once,  this  evening,  she  had  been  light 
and  happy  as  heart  could  wish.  So  the  min- 
utes passed  uncounted,  whilst  time  sped  on  and 
it  grew  late. 

At  last,  most  of  the  people  had  gone,  and 
many  of  those  that  stayed  so  late  began  to 
grow  quarrelsome  in  drink.  For  where  there 
are  sports,  there  is  certain  to  be  some  bother 
or  the  other.  All  the  world  over,  it  is  just  the 
same — the  few  that  win  will  swagger  over 
their  fellows,  and  they  that  lose  can  never  sit 


Bratton  Revel  73 

down  satisfied.  So  the  dancers  had  dwindled 
down  to  very  few ;  and  on  every  side  were  high 
words  and  a  lot  of  noise  toward  the  end  of 
Bratton  revel. 

Then  Ursula  suddenly  recollected  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour. 

"I  must  get  on,"  she  whispered  in  Jack's  ear. 
"I  ought  to  ha'  went  long  agone.  I  can  tell 
'ee,  the  old  man'll  be  fine  an'  angry  as  'tis. 
Walk  on  down  so  fur  wi'  me,  Jack.  Do  'ee 
now.  There  be  so  many  about — an'  all  so 
rough." 

They  went  together  by  a  path  across  the 
fields,  away  from  so  much  trumpery  hub-bub 
in  the  village  street.  The  night  was  quiet  and 
sweet  with  all  the  fragrance  of  the  dew-fed 
flowers.  They  talked  of  everything,  with 
minds  as  frank  and  free  from  guile  as  the  open 
air  upon  the  hills  is  free  from  harm. 

Of  how  William  would  have  luck  for  certain 
and  come  home  soon.  And  Ursula  would  get 
her  own  money  into  her  own  hands,  if  she  died 
for  it,  so  she  would — and  then  marry  at  once. 
For  what  good  is  it  to  wait  to  be  rich  till  all  the 
best  o'  life  is  gone?  Not  a  bit.  For  the  soul 

of  her,  Ursula  could  not  see  why  folk  could 
6 


74  A  Tangled  Web 

not  go  on  all  happy-like,  one  with  another, 
without  so  much  worry  and  scraping,  just  to 
think  you've  a-got  more  than  the  rest,  and  then 
to  put  it  out  to  use  or  lock  it  away  out  of  sight 
until  you  be  dead.  Fags !  There  was  no  sense 
in  that.  Not  but  what  Jack  must  save  his  ha'- 
pence— that  was  another  thing,  but 

So  she  talked  on,  with  all  the  deep,  uncon- 
scious wisdom  that  sounds  like  nothing  when 
it  falls  from  simple  lips.  And  young  Jack  saw 
the  rightship,  too,  of  all  she  said. 

At  a  stile,  hard  by  the  barn,  they  stopped. 
Her  father  hated  the  Whites,  and  it  would  be 
just  as  well,  if  he  were  waiting,  that  he  should 
not  see  young  Jack.  They  stood  a  minute; 
then  shook  hands  and  parted,  with  a 

"Good  night,  Ursie." 

"Good  night,  Jack." 

She  hurried  across  the  barton,  with  the 
empty  cow-stalls  dark  upon  one  side,  and 
through  the  little  garden  to  the  porch.  The 
moonlight  fell  across  the  arch  and  lighted  up 
the  stone  seat  upon  the  right  as  bright  as  day. 
She  lifted  the  latch  and  pushed,  but  the  door 
was  firm  and  would  not  give  an  inch.  By  the 
rattle  she  could  hear  that  it  was  barred. 


Bratton  Revel  75 

So  he  had  locked  her  out. 

That  he  was  like  to  be  fine  and  mad  and  to 
use  loud  words,  she  knew,  but  she  had  never 
thought  of  this.  Day  by  day,  from  early  morn- 
ing to  dark  night,  she  worked  for  him  like  a 
slave;  and  now,  because  for  once  in  her  life 
she  had  done  as  others  do  and  taken  her  hour 
of  pleasure  with  the  rest,  he  must  turn  the  key 
upon  her.  It  was  only  a  threat,  to  be  sure — as 
idle  as  the  jeers  with  which  he  was  so  free. 
But  the  insult  stung  her  to  the  quick.  To  shut 
her  out  from  house  was  like  saying  she  had 
gone  to  the  bad,  and  there,  for  all  he  cared, 
she  might  stay.  Again  she  wished  to  God  he 
were  dead  and  in  his  grave.  She  said  it  be- 
tween her  set  teeth,  and  meant  it,  too.  She 
hated  him,  so  there!  and  had  done  for  years. 
He  thought,  no  doubt,  to  hear  her  knock  and 
knock,  and  at  last  come  down  as  a  favor  and 
grumble  and  let  her  in.  She  would  never 
knock;  not  if  she  stood  there  all  night  upon 
the  stones. 

But,  just  at  the  height  of  this  resolve,  her 
heart  failed.  A  woman's  courage  is  like  a 
wave  which  rises  sharply  into  a  sudden  menace 
and  just  as  quickly  falls  away  and  sinks.  A 


j6  A  Tangled  Web 

sound  of  drunken  revellers,  singing  in  snatches 
as  they  staggered  down  the  road,  made  her 
afraid. 

She  knocked  and  stood  waiting,  but  no  one 
answered. 

Knuckles  were  no  good  against  the  heavy 
oaken  door.  By  the  path  lay  a  pebble  that  had 
fallen  out  of  the  edging  of  the  flower-knot. 
She  picked  it  up  and  knocked  again,  loudly,  on 
the  head  of  one  of  the  great,  square  nails. 

Then  she  laid  her  ear  against  the  key-hole 
and  listened.  But  all  was  silent.  There  was 
not  so  much  as  a  foot- fall  in  the  house. 

She  threw  down  the  stone.  She  would  go 
straight  away  to  the  Whites,  afore  they  were 
a-bed,  and  tell  how  she  was  treated. 

Yet  there  might  be  people  staying  for  the 
night.  Great-uncle  Tutchins,  with  his  jokes, 
or  that  fool,  Malachi  Webb,  gaping  and  star- 
ing to  swallow  down  everything  said  or  done. 
Better  take  the  barn-door  key  from  its  hiding 
place  in  the  chink  below  the  thatch,  and  go  in 
and  lie  down  upon  the  cess,  the  heap  of  un- 
thrashed  corn  upon  one  side  of  the  threshing- 
floor,  with  a  sheaf  to  make  as  sweet  and  clean 
a  pillow  as  head  could  wish  to  lie  upon. 


Bratton  Revel  77 

Only  there  were  rats 

Why,  even  as  she  was — in  the  porch — of  a 
hot  mid-summer  night 

But  with  so  many  tramps  about,  tumblers 
and  showmen  and  that — bad  fellows  who  were 
used  to  creep  in  anywhere  of  a  night  out  of  the 
way. 

She  shuddered  at  the  thought. 

She  was  more  helpless  to  shift  for  herself 
than  a  child.  At  home  she  would  have  to  stay 
until  William  came  back  to  marry  her — when- 
ever that  might  chance  to  be.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  wait  until  morning  and  then 
drudge  on  again. 

A  bitter  feeling  that,  only  half  suspected, 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  burst  out. 

Why  did  not  William  marry  her  before  he 
went,  if  he  loved  her  so  much  as  he  said  ?  He 
had  walked  with  her  for  more  than  a  twelve- 
month. Why  did  he  not  take  her  to  church, 
and  home  to  Winterhays,  out  of  the  way  of 
so  much  bother,  half  of  it  for  his  sake?  She 
could  have  earned  her  living  like  the  rest.  No 
fear!  And  would  have  stood  a  true  wife  till 
he  came  back,  even  if  it  had  been  for  years ;  ay, 
and  worked  her  fingers  to  the  bone  there, 


78  A  Tangled  Web 

where  her  lot  was  to  be  cast.  But  no,  he  must 
go  off  and  get  money  first,  and  leave  her  here 
to  bear  the  brunt  of  it  alone. 

She  threw  herself  into  the  innermost  corner 
on  the  darkest  side  of  the  porch  and  gave  way 
to  a  tempest  of  angry  sobs  and  tears. 


Harvest  79 


CHAPTER  IV 
HARVEST 

It  was  harvest.  But,  in  all  Bratton,  Jacob 
Hands  ford  only  had  not  yet  begun  to  reap. 

All  around  the  hillside,  above  the  orchards 
bright  with  apples  turning  red,  below  the  leafy 
woods,  and  wedged  between  the  meadows 
green  with  aftergrass,  were  grounds  of  golden, 
waving  wheat.  The  cloudless  sky  had  never 
looked  so  blue  as  just  behind  the  standing  bar- 
ley on  the  ridge,  and  not  a  storm  that  year  had 
come  to  beat  it  down.  Only  a  gentle,  rippling 
breeze  to  help  it  ripen  in  the  sun. 

First  into  one  piece  then  another  the  reap- 
ers went,  and  close  behind  them  stooped  the 
women  binding  sheaves.  From  early  morning 
until  dark,  throughout  the  happy,  sunny  days, 
they  worked  without  a  drop  of  rain.  So  Brat- 
ton  was  in  the  best  of  humours. 

Now  here,  now  there,  sometimes  two  to- 
gether, burst  out  the  shouts  and  whooping  of 
the  reapers  as  farm  after  farm  cut  its  last  sheaf 
and  decked  it  out  with  flowers. 


8o  A  Tangled  Web 

"  Well  cut !     Well  bound  ! 
Well  shocked!     Well  zavedfrom  ground!  " 

Sometimes  a  waggon  rattled  up  or  down  the 
village  street  past  Jacob  Handsford's  house. 
Upon  the  top  o'  the  load  was  a  figure  made  of 
the  best  of  the  corn,  trimmed  with  ribbons  of 
all  colours,  and  crowned  with  poppies,  great 
horse-daisies,  and  hollyhocks.  This  was  the 
harvest-queen.  With  it  went  everybody,  sing- 
ing fit  to  burst  his  throat  the  song  of  harvest- 
home: 

"  We  have  ploughed,  we  have  zowed, 

We  have  reaped,  we  have  mowed, 

We  have  brought  home  every  load. 

Hip!    Hip!    Hurrah!" 

Jacob  Handsford  watched  and  listened  with 
a  bitterness  of  envy  in  his  heart.  The  neigh- 
bours were  all  doing  so  well  whilst  day  by  day 
his  own  was  going  to  waste.  It  seemed  to  him 
that,  only  to  madden  him,  they  crawled  as 
slow  as  snails  up  the  hill,  and  cheered  the  loud- 
er over-right  his  door.  Ha!  he  said  to  him- 
self, he  knew  what  they  meant — and  the 
thought  made  him  grind  his  teeth.  For  that 
year  they  had  sent  him  the  "mare!"  But, 
though  the  fools  little  guessed  it,  he  could  tell 
where  it  came  from,  and  who  was  to  pay  for 


Harvest  8 1 

it,  too,  in  the  end.  He  had  overheard  every 
word  that  was  said. 

It  came  from  up  to  Whites',  and  this  was 
how  it  happened. 

In  those  days,  neighbours  agreed  together 
to  help  each  other,  and  do  the  work  first  fit. 
They  made  a  king  of  the  reapers,  whose  word 
was  law ;  and  from  farm  to  farm  they  went  in 
turn,  where  they  were  wanted  most,  and  every 
homestead  found  a  feast.  But  Jacob,  for  his 
stinginess,  and  because  in  old  times  he  was 
never  satisfied  with  what  was  done,  but  always 
fancied  himself  hurt  when  men  had  worked 
their  best,  was  left  out  of  it  to-year,  or  forced, 
however  great  his  need,  to  wait  till  last.  All 
the  world  over,  where  you  will,  folk  will  help 
them  first  whom  they  love  most;  and  never  a 
soul  could  he  get  to  come  to  him  until  every- 
body else  had  done.  So  there  was  good  reason 
why  Jacob  could  not  join  in  the  general  jollity. 
He  was  paying  for  his  meanness  a  deal  more 
than  if  he  had  put  money  out  of  pocket  to  win 
goodwill. 

Beside  himself  to  know  what  to  do,  for  the 
twentieth  time  he  walked  up  to  the  ground 
against  the  gully  to  look  at  his  wheat.  The 


82  A  Tangled  Web 

sparrows  that  harboured  by  the  thousand  in 
the  tall,  thick  hedgerows  were  playing  most 
terrible  work  with  it,  to  be  sure.  Blue  pigeons 
spread  their  wings  and  sailed  down  upon  it 
from  the  oak  trees  in  the  wood.  And  more 
than  that,  the  berries  were  dead  ripe  and  dry, 
fit  to  drop  at  the  first  breath  of  wind.  It  was 
enough  to  break  a  man's  heart  to  see  the  ears 
so  beaten  out  and  thinner  day  by  day.  And 
there,  across  to  Winterhays,  they  were  cutting 
the  last  piece,  too. 

He  heard  the  fools  singing  and  looked 
round. 

He  saw  Ursula  standing  on  one  side,  laugh- 
ing and  joking  with  the  rest — enjoying  her- 
self just  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  waste 
of  money  in  this  world.  A  trumpery  giglet 
of  a  maid,  that  any  minute  of  the  day  must 
needs  run  off;  and  yet,  for  the  life  of  him,  he 
dared  not  say  too  much,  for  fear  she  might  go 
and  leave  him  altogether. 

He  blamed  that  to  the  Whites,  too.  They 
set  her  against  him,  and  held  with  her  in  her 
defiance.  Ever  since  she  stayed  up  to  Winter- 
hays  so  late,  the  night  he  locked  her  out  of 
house,  she  was  changed,  and  cared  no  more 


Harvest  8  3 

for  him  than  if  his  words  were  water.  And 
although  nothing  came  of  it  at  the  time,  and 
nothing  had  been  said  since,  unspoken  thoughts 
kept  working  in  the  heart  of  each  like  hidden 
seeds  swelling  underground  and  only  waiting 
the  right  moment  to  spring  forth. 

What  happened  then  Jacob  knew  no  more 
than  the  dead. 

To  bolt  the  door  and  go  to  bed  at  dark  was 
his  habit,  for  he  never  could  a-bear  to  light  a 
candle  in  summer-time.  It  pleased  him  to 
know  that  he  was  doing  only  as  he  was  wont, 
and  Ursula  must  take  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence. And  then,  twice  he  heard  her  knock. 
Ha !  let  her  knock  again.  And  let  it  be  a  lesson 
to  her.  She  had  never  consulted  him  about 
going  out,  so  what  need  to  consider  her  about 
coming  in?  Jacob  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened. 

But  when  Ursula  did  not  knock  he  became 
restless. 

What  was  she  doing?  Had  she  gone  back 
to  Whites'  for  the  night  ?  Every  soul  in  Brat- 
ton  would  know  it,  to-morrow,  and  not  one  but 
would  take  the  girl's  part.  Or  had  she  gone 
for  good,  as  she,  yesterday,  threatened?  The 
thought  made  him  more  uneasy  still. 


84  A  Tangled  Web 

At  last  he  could  bear  the  silence  and  uncer- 
tainty no  longer.  He  got  up,  slipped  on  his 
small-clothes,  and  went  down-stairs  to  open  the 
door. 

But  Ursula  was  not  there.  The  porch  was 
empty,  and  he  walked  out  into  the  barton  in 
the  bright  moonlight  and  stood  beside  the 
stalls.  Perhaps  she  might  have  crept  in  some- 
where out  of  the  way — into  some  corner  to 
wait  for  morning.  He  called  her  name.  But 
everything  was  still.  If  she  were  hiding,  she 
did  not  care  to  answer.  He  called  again, 
louder  than  before.  He  was  afraid  that  some- 
body might  be  about  and  hear,  and  he  stole 
back  into  the  house  and  barred  the  door  once 
more,  with  a  feeling  that  things  had  not  turned 
out  well,  and  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself. 

If  Ursula  were  to  go  from  home,  and  the 
cows  now  all  come  into  full  pail,  who  would 
make  the  cheese,  to-morrow? 

That  thought  worried  him  as  much  as  what 
folk  would  say.  He  could  not  get  a  wink  of 
sleep  all  night  for  turning  it  over  in  his  mind, 
and,  at  daybreak,  he  got  up  and  went  out 
again.  Like  enough  she  had  found  a  place 
somewhere  out  of  the  way.  Perhaps  he  might 


Harvest  85 

find  her  now,  and  sneer  at  her  crumpled  "fal- 
lals," for  Ursula  would  have  on  all  her  finery 
— no  fear.  But  nothing  fell  out  to  his  wish. 
In  barn  or  loft  or  stall,  not  a  latch  had  been 
lifted.  And  at  the  hour  for  fetching  in  the 
cows,  Ursula  came  down  as  usual,  fresh  as  a 
daisy,  after  a  good  night's  sleep.  The  toad  of 
a  maid  went  singing  on  her  way  to  the  leaze. 

Jacob  Handsford  was  perplexed,  but  he 
wisely  kept  a  still  tongue.  She  must  have  crept 
in  unbeknown  before  he  went  to  bed. 

And  Ursula  never  said  a  word,  but,  for  that 
reason,  harboured  anger  all  the  more. 

So  it  was  like  wormwood  to  him  to  see  her 
in  the  Whites'  harvest-field.  She  was  joking 
with  young  Jack,  for  the  reaping  drew  to  an 
end  and  he  stood  upright,  hook  in  hand.  The 
last  few  blades  came  to  cutting.  The  men 
stopped  work,  but  left  a  handful  of  standing 
corn.  Then  the  king  o'  the  reapers,  great-uncle 
Tutchins  as  it  happened,  trimmed  up  with 
flowers,  "like  a  great  Tom-fool,"  as  Jacob  mut- 
tered to  himself,  toddled  up  to  this  last  bit  of 
wheat,  and,  just  below  the  ruddy  ears,  with  a 
pride  that  made  Jacob  sick,  he  tied  the  straw 
together  in  a  knot. 


86  A  Tangled  Web 

Whooping  like  a  pack  o'  boys,  the  reapers 
all  stood  back  in  a  half-circle  and  threw  their 
reap-hooks  at  this  mark.  But  nobody  could  hit 
it ;  and  the  longer  they  went  on,  the  louder  they 
shouted  and  the  wilder  was  their  aim. 

"Ha!  They'd  grumble  loud  enough  if 
'twere  work  an'  they  had  to  do  it,"  growled 
Jacob. 

At  that  moment,  a  hook  sped  true  and  the 
last  blades  were  cut. 

Then  he  who  had  chanced  to  hit,  rushed 
forward  and  held  the  bunch  of  corn  above  his 
head. 

"I  ha'  her.  I  ha'  her.  I  ha'  her,"  he  yelled, 
in  triumph. 

Then  all  the  others  answered  back. 

"What  ha'  'ee?  .What  ha'  'ee?  What  ha* 
'ee?" 

"A  mare !    A  mare !    A  mare !" 

"Whose  is  her?  Whose  is  her?  Whose  is 
her?" 

Malachi  Webb  was  the  lucky  man  at 
Whites'.  Red  in  the  face  with  joy,  he  shouted 
out  his  own  name  to  claim  possession. 

"Malachi  Webbses!  Malachi  Webbses! 
Malachi  Webbses!" 


Harvest  87 

"Who  will  'ee  zend  her  to?  Who  will  'ee 
zend  her  to  ?  Who  will  'ee  zend  her  to  ?" 

"To  little  Jakey  Handsford.  To  little  Ja- 
key " 

The  remainder  of  the  words,  always  relig- 
iously repeated  three  times,  were  drowned  in 
the  outburst  of  cheering  and  derision  that  fol- 
lowed. Ursula,  standing  by,  laughed  like  the 
rest.  Why  not?  It  was  only  a  joke  to  them, 
and  if  they  chose  to  send  this  trumpery  little 
sheaf,  which  for  no  reason  in  life  they  called 
a  "mare,"  down  to  her  father,  what  was  that 
to  her?  It  had  been  done  before  to  others. 
Why  not  to  him?  It  was  a  common  thing  to 
send  it  to  the  neighbour  who  was  last  with  his 
harvest,  and  why  should  he  be  different  to  the 
rest  ?  She  did  not  care.  Even  from  a  distance 
he  could  see  that. 

Jacob,  standing  amidst  his  spoiling  crop, 
grew  pale  with  rage. 

His  ears  had  drunk  in  every  syllable ;  and  he, 
whose  talk  in  the  main  was  jeering  at  other 
folk,  could  not  bear  so  much  as  a  smile  against 
himself.  He  crept  out  of  the  corn  and  hurried 
home  unseen.  He  would  give  a  greeting  to 
their  messenger  if  any  should  appear.  He  felt 


88  A  Tangled  Web 

mad  enough,  except  for  a  thought  of  law  which 
costs  money,  win  or  lose  alike,  to  lay  in  wait 
and  knock  the  fellow  down  with  a  pick.  He 
stayed  at  home  on  purpose  to  give  him  a  word 
of  a  sort  with  the  rough  side  of  his  tongue. 

Nobody  came. 

Malachi  Webb  was  too  wise,  ha!  and  they 
all  knew  better  than  to  show  their  noses  there. 
Their  talk  was  nothing  but  words,  after  all — 
empty  words  and  foolery,  of  which  the  world 
was  full. 

He  reassured  himself.  He  even  sneered  in- 
wardly at  such  trumpery  folk  too  faint-hearted 
to  carry  out  what  they  had  in  mind. 

It  so  happened  that  the  milking  now  was  no 
longer  done  in  the  barton,  but  in  the  field  in 
the  shade  of  the  tall  elm  trees  by  the  back  of 
the  house.  As  they  sat  to  the  cows  in  the  cool 
of  that  afternoon,  he  kept  twitting  Ursula  as 
usual. 

"Ha !  Zo  they  ha'n't  a-zend  down  the  mare 
to  little  Jakey  Handsf ord.  Eh  ?  They  thought 
better  o'  it,  zimly.  He!  he!  There  is  one  or 
two  of  'em  might  want  a  poun'  or  two  o'  un, 
one  o'  these  fine  days.  Zo  better  not  to  affront 
lin.  Eh?  Oh  no;  better  not  to  affront  un." 


Harvest  89 

But,  when  Jacob  came  to  go  into  house,  there 
was  the  silly  little  sheaf,  straight  under  the 
nose  of  him.  Somebody  had  come  by  stealth, 
when  the  place  was  empty,  and  stuck  it  through 
the  ring  of  the  front  door  latch. 

With  an  oath,  he  dragged  it  out,  and  cursed 
and  swore;  threw  it  under  foot  and  stamped 
the  ears  abroad  upon  the  smooth,  stone  floor. 
But  all  his  fury  was  against  the  Whites.  Mal- 
achi  Webb,  who  had  shouted  his  name,  was 
such  a  born  fool  that  for  the  moment  he  was 
of  no  account.  It  came  from  the  Whites.  It 
was  they  who  had  sent  it — sent  it  out  o'  spite 
because  they  couldn't  get  on  themselves,  and 
couldn't  a-bear  to  see  others  do  well.  That 
was  the  phrase  Jacob  used  for  getting  and  sav- 
ing, and  nothing  else. 

He  cursed  them  one  and  all  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  with  every  evil  that  wish  could  put  into 
words. 

That  the  widow  might  want  bread.  That 
the  house  might  catch  fire  and  burn  over  her 
head.  That  their  beasts  should  go  dry,  ay, 
and  drop  and  die  like  flies  in  a  frost,  and  lie 
and  rot.  That  the  young  Jack  might  be 
brought  home  on  a  hurdle  from  his  cudgel- 

7 


90  A  Tangled  Web 

play  or  his  bull-baiting — ha!  Sprack  as  he 
mid  be.  And  that  William  might  sink  at  sea 
and  drown  in  sight  of  shore. 

At  the  height  of  his  frenzy,  he  stopped  short. 
He  had  spent  all  his  curses,  or  come  suddenly 
to  a  sense  that  they  were  waste  of  breath. 

He  kicked  the  bundle  of  bruised  straw  out  of 
doors  and  turned  into  the  kitchen. 

His  voice  sank  very  low.  It  was  little  more 
now  than  a  muttering  to  himself  as  he  went. 

"But  they  shall  pay  for  it.  Ha!  Their  little 
jokes  shall  stand  in  a  big  price.  It  shall  cost 
'em  dear,  then,  little  as  they  mid  think  it  now, 
whilst  they  do  laugh.  He!  he!  poun's  an' 
poun's  they  shall  lose  by  it  afore  all  is  a-done. 
An'  Malachi,  too.  Mayhap,  Malachi  may  grin 
the  t'other  side  of  the  ugly  face  o'  un  when  he 
do  next  get  word  from  little  Jakey  Handsford. 
So  there." 


Warning  9 1 


CHAPTER  V 
WARNING 

Three  days  had  passed  since  the  reaping, 
and  the  Whites  were  to  have  their  feast  of 
harvest-home  that  night. 

It  was  early  afternoon,  with  all  the  glowing 
heat  of  mid-day  in  the  still,  soft  air,  on  the 
crumbling  ground,  and  in  the  crackling  stub- 
ble underfoot.  Ursula,  free  until  evening, 
strolled  up  into  the  wheat-field  under  the  wood- 
side  to  pick  herself  a  pocketful  of  nuts.  The 
ruddy,  golden  sheaves  set  up  in  stitch — ten  to 
the  stitch,  ready  for  the  pa' son  to  take  his  tithe 
— reached,  in  long  rows,  both  up  and  down, 
all  athirt  the  ground.  Ursula,  in  her  laced 
bodice  and  sun-bonnet,  passed  loitering  be- 
tween, and,  as  she  went,  here  and  there  she 
plucked  an  ear,  rubbed  out  the  berries  between 
her  hands,  and  stopped  to  winnow  away  the 
chaff  with  her  breath.  More  than  once  she 
glanced  around  to  see  if  anybody  were  about. 
But  the  harvesters  were  carrying  overhedge, 
shut  out  of  sight  by  a  thick  screen  of  hazel 


92  A  Tangled  Web 

leaves.  They  would  not  be  there  for  an  hour 
or  two  until  the  sun  came  over  the  tall  trees  in 
the  wood.  She  could  hear  their  voices,  and 
now  and  again  the  rattle  of  the  plough,  as  in 
those  days  they  used  to  call  the  waggon  and 
team. 

Ursula  was  to  be  at  the  feast,  of  course. 

She  did  not  care  a  button  what  her  father 
might  say  or  do,  since  he  had  locked  her  out, 
three  months  ago.  He  might  lock  her  out 
again  if  he  liked.  She  meant  to  act  as  she 
would.  Long  before  then,  a  constant  fretting 
had  worn  thin  every  thread  and  link  that  binds 
together  father  and  child,  often  as  much  from 
pride  and  interest  as  love;  and,  on  that  night, 
the  last  was  broken.  The  affection  that  should 
spring  in  infancy  got  blighted  and  never  blos- 
somed into  respect.  She  was  ashamed,  and 
cared  not  a  straw  for  him  and  his  grumbling. 
She  could  even  talk  outright  of  his  meanness, 
to  Jack  or  the  widow,  or  to  any  of  the  neigh- 
bours, rather  than  it  should  seem  that  she  held 
with  his  ways.  She  laughed  to  think  that  he 
had  never  suspected  how  she  got  in. 

For,  as  Ursula  sat  sobbing  that  night,  with- 
out sound  of  footstep  within  and  with  scarcely 


Warning  93 

a  rattle  of  the  latch,  very  stealthily  the  door 
opened,  so  slowly  that  the  hinges  scarcely 
creaked.  Out  of  the  gloomy  darkness  of  the 
passage,  white  as  a  ghost  and  quite  silent,  came 
little  Hannah  Peach.  Her  feet  were  bare.  She 
had  on  only  the  little  short  smock,  just  down  to 
her  knees,  she  wore  at  night.  As  she  crept  out 
into  the  porch  and  looked  at  Ursula  in  the 
moonlight,  her  face  grew  keen  and  eager  with 
expectation. 

The  child  was  excited.  "The  maister,  he 
zend  me  on,"  she  said,  speaking  with  the  quick 
delight  of  one  who  looks  for  praise.  "But  I 
run  an'  stood  to  winder  in  the  empty  room 
above  to  watch  for  'ee,  Miss  Urs'la.  There,  I 
couldn't  shut  my  eyes  nor  bide  abed  for  looking 
for  'ee  to  come.  Zo  I  heard  un  bolt  'ee  out.  Zo 
I  run  down,  Miss  Urs'la " 

She  glanced  from  right  to  left  to  note 
whether  Ursula  carried  anything  in  hand. 
Then  she  looked  up  again  with  wistful  eyes. 

"That's  a  good  girl,  Hannah.  I  shall  re- 
member 'ee.  Run  on  up  to  bed  at  once  afore 
your  feet  do  get  chilled  'pon  the  stones.  Run 
on,  my  maid.  I'll  do  'ee  a  good  turn  one  o' 
these  days." 


94  A  Tangled  Web 

The  child  drew  back  a  little  into  the  door- 
way, but  waited. 

"Did  'ee— did  'ee  bring ?" 

Then  Ursula  bethought  herself. 

"There!"  she  suddenly  cried,  "if  I  ha'n't  a- 
forgot  what  I  promised  'ee,  Hannah.  Good 
now!  Well,  I  did  think  o'  it,  too,  an'  then  it 
slipped  out  o'  mind.  You  shall  have  it.  Don't 
you  fear,  my  maid.  You  shall " 

But  with  a  sigh,  Hannah,  turning  to  the  un- 
lighted  staircase,  had  faded  out  of  sight. 

Yet,  on  the  morrow,  Ursula  was  as  good  as 
her  word.  She  gave  to  Hannah  Peach  a  lucky 
fourpenny  bit  with  a  hole  in  it,  which  she 
warned  her  never  to  part  with,  for  then  she 
could  never  be  out  o'  money,  come  what  may. 

This  dazzling  gift  of  riches,  beyond  her 
wildest  dream,  the  little  workhouse  orphan 
wrapped  in  paper,  but  night  and  morn  took 
out  to  feast  her  eyes  upon.  All  the  week,  for 
fear  it  might  get  lost,  she  kept  it  hidden  in  the 
toe  of  her  Sunday  shoe.  But  when  she  went 
to  church,  she  carried  it  in  her  pocket,  and, 
whilst  she  said  her  prayers,  clutched  it  tight. 

Oh,  no!  Jacob,  with  his  cunning,  had  not 
given  a  thought  to  Hannah  Peach. 


Warning  95 

And  Ursula  had  never  felt  so  happy  and 
light-hearted  as  during  the  last  three  months. 

Half  her  time  she  spent  up  to  Whites'.  And 
nothing  but  right,  too,  since  she  was  to  wed 
with  William,  and  the  widow  made  her  wel- 
come as  ever  flowers  in  May.  The  life  at  Win- 
terhays  was  free.  There  was  room  in  that 
home  for  the  heart  to  grow.  For  the  first  time 
she  breathed,  after  the  tongue-tied,  hide-bound 
poverty  in  wealth  of  her  father's  house.  These 
Whites  took  such  pride  and  put  such  trust  in 
each  other.  It  sounded  good  to  hear  Jack 
make  a  god  of  William,  and  the  widow  sing  the 
praises  of  Jack. 

The  widow  was  full  of  motherly  cares.  As 
she  hurried  about  the  household  chores,  all  her 
talk  was  of  the  boys.  For  certain,  her  mind 
dwelt  most  on  William  who  was  away  at  sea, 
but  it  was  clear  to  see  that  Jack  was  the  Ben- 
jamin and  nearest  to  her  heart.  She  spread 
out  his  virtues  to  cover  up  the  short-comings 
of  youth.  For  Jack  was  wonderful  for  work. 
Nobody  better  'pon  earth.  Only  she  must  say 
it,  if  'twere  the  last  words  she  had  to  speak, 
Jack  would  get  about  wi'  gay  company  that 
were  no  good  to  him — for  all  the  world  like  his 


96  A  Tangled  Web 

poor  father,  so  easy  led  and  never  could  say  no. 
Now,  William  was  a  Puckeridge  all  over.  No- 
body could  ever  lead  him  or  frighten.  Oh  no, 
stubborn  as  a  bull,  and  never  to  be  turned  when 
his  mind  was  once  a-made  up.  And  quick  and 
hot  as  fire  if  you  did  but  thwart  him  with  a  look 
— ah!  bless  you! — fit  to  kill  a  man,  when  his 
blood  was  up.  Though  that  might  come  of 
his  roving  life,  for  he  softened  most  wonderful 
the  last  twelvemonth  he  lived  at  home.  But 
then,  William  had  a  mole  on  his  left  foot,  a  sure 
sign  that  of  a  fierce,  determined  nature  that 
nobody  could  cow.  A'most  all  the  Puck- 
eridges  had  moles.  A-put  by  a  merciful  God 
for  some  wise  purpose,  an'  a  warning,  without 
doubt.  Now,  Jack  had  never  spot  nor  blemish 
from  head  to  heel.  But  Jack  favoured  the 
Whites,  and  a  White  was  always  smooth  as  a 
woman. 

So  she  would  go  on  by  the  hour;  for  the 
presence  of  Ursula  about  the  place  cheered  her 
way,  loosened  the  strings  of  her  tongue,  and 
lightened  the  burden  of  life.  And  la,  there! 
Ursula  was  as  sprack  as  a  kitten  and  always 
ready  to  lend  a  hand.  A  capital  good  wife  she 
would  make  one  o'  these  days  and  no  mistake. 


Warning  97 

The  mother  in  Rizpah  warmed  towards  the 
maiden  who  was  William's  sweetheart ;  for  the 
heart  of  a  true  woman  never  grows  so  staid  as 
to  lose  sense  of  the  romance  in  marriage  yet  to 
be.  This  wholesome  frankness  of  the  farm — 
where  folk  was  natural  and  nothing  was  hid- 
den, because  there  was  nothing  to  hide — in 
spite  of  anxious  hours,  made  the  days  pass  by 
as  sweet  as  summer. 

Yet,  in  the  bosom  of  Ursula,  that  afternoon, 
was  a  growing  restlessness  that  kept  her  all  the 
time  on  edge,  in  spite  of  herself.  She  made  a 
cup  of  her  two  hands,  raised  it  to  her  mouth, 
and  blew  away  the  chaff  over  her  fingers. 
After  all  this  trouble  taken,  she  threw  the  wheat 
upon  the  ground.  Then,  suddenly,  she  quick- 
ened her  pace  and  strode  up  into  the  corner 
where  the  hedgerow  meets  the  wood. 

Never,  by  word  of  mouth,  had  they  agreed 
to  meet ;  but,  sure  as  the  day  came  round,  some- 
where or  the  other,  quiet  in  the  fields,  she  was 
certain  to  fall  in  with  young  Jack.  If  she  did 
but  pass  along  the  hedge  a-nutting,  he  must 
chance  to  come  that  way  to  pull  the  boughs 
down  ready  to  her  hand.  But  that  afternoon 
he  had  not  walked  across. 


98  A  Tangled  Web 

Not  that  she  wanted  him — not  she.  So  she 
said  to  herself,  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  as  she 
hastened  with  quick  steps  upon  the  glistening 
stubble.  He  had  his  own  mind  to  use,  to  come 
or  stay  away  for  all  she  cared.  He  was  noth- 
ing to  her,  and  never  could  be — more  than  a 
friend  of  course.  Yet  she  cast  another  glance 
over  her  shoulder  and  gave  one  more  look 
towards  the  gate.  For  though  there  were  no 
more  in  it  than  warm  blood  and  the  joy  of 
youth,  Ursula  felt  neglected.  She  felt  angry 
with  herself,  too,  to  be  so  vexed  and  disap- 
pointed because  he  was  not  there. 

Oh  well!  Some  fine  day  before  long,  he 
would  want  her  counsel,  as  he  had  many  a  time 
of  late.  He  was  always  in  some  bother  or  the 
other,  with  no  more  headpiece  over  his  shoul- 
ders than  a  great,  overgrown  boy.  She  could 
tell  by  his  face  when  something  went  amiss; 
and  the  very  next  time  she  could  be  too  busy  to 
listen  to  one  word  of  it — so  there. 

What  a  fool  she  was!  Though,  for  that 
matter,  a  body  can't  help  her  thoughts;  and 
other  folk  don't  know  what  you  don't  tell, 
thank  goodness. 

Close  above  her  head  the  nuts  hung  thick. 


Warning  99 

She  stepped  down  into  the  ditch  and  climbed 
the  bank,  reaching  up  her  bare  arm  to  get  at  a 
cluster  of  six. 

From  the  wood  behind  her  came  a  rustling 
of  leaves  and  the  snapping  sound  of  bushes 
thrust  aside.  Her  face  brightened.  Quick 
as  thought  she  understood.  To  be  out  of  sight 
of  the  harvesters,  he  had  gone  round  and 
pushed  his  way  through  the  copse. 

So  he  could  not  stay  away  then,  even  when 
folk  were  about,  and  he  afraid  that  they  would 
laugh.  She  climbed  closer  into  the  hedge. 
There  was  no  need  to  take  note  of  him  until 
he  spoke. 

"Ursie." 

She  turned  suddenly  round  and  greeted  him 
in  surprise,  as  if  his  being  there  were  the  thing 
farthest  from  her  thoughts. 

"Hullo,  Jack,  then !     What,  is  that  you?" 

Then  Jack,  smiling,  drawled  his  usual  an- 
swer, never  changing  so  much  as  a  word. 

"I  eyed  'ee  out  here,  Ursie.  Zo  I  thought  I 
mid  so  well  come  up." 

They  looked  straight  into  each  other's  eyes 
and  laughed.  As  to  the  little  bit  o'  flim-flam 
— that  took  nobody  in.  Each  knew  the  other 


ioo  A  Tangled  Web 

had  their  meeting  full  in  mind.  So  the  pre- 
tence only  turned  to  mirth  and  put  them  at 
their  ease,  as  it  were. 

"Let's  go  an'  zit  down  a  bit,  Ursie,  an'  talk," 
he  begged  of  her,  in  a  coaxing  tone,  and 
pointed  to  a  stitch  of  corn  hard  by. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Tidden  very  likely.  Not  I,"  she  said,  mak- 
ing much  of  what,  after  all,  was  but  a  very 
small  matter. 

"But  I've  a-got  something  to  tell  'ee." 

An  anxious  look  upon  his  face,  altogether 
out  of  keeping  with  his  happy-go-lucky  nature, 
made  her  pause. 

"What  is  it?  What  foolery  have  'ee  a-bin 
up  to,  now  ?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  'Tis  nothing  o'  that.  'Tis  something  I  do 
want  'ee  to  know,  Ursie,  most  partic'lar." 

Her  curiosity  was  awakened.  In  the  next 
breath  she  gave  consent.  "Oh,  well  there! 
since  'tis  but  jus'  for  a  minute,  I  don't  so  very 
much  mind  if  I  do." 

The  sun  was  some  time  past  the  south,  but 
as  yet  the  shadows  were  not  long.  Jack  was 
in  shirt-sleeves,  rolled  up  to  the  elbows,  fresh 
from  his  work.  They  walked  across  and  sat 


Warning  I  o  i 

down  side  by  side  upon  the  yellow  stubble, 
against  a  cone  of  leaning  sheaves  that  rose 
above  their  heads  and  sheltered  them  like  a  hut. 
They  were  so  hidden  that  a  person  might  have 
come  within  ten  yards  and  gone  again  no  whit 
the  wiser  that  anyone  was  there. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  threw  it  down  upon 
the  ground. 

"Ursie,"  he  began,  in  a  whisper,  leaning  to- 
wards her,  still  with  a  troubled  look  in  his  eyes, 
"do  'ee  know  your  vather  is  at  everything  he 
can  to  get  away  Winterhays  ?  He've  a-bin  to 
'em  an'  bid  good  money,  so  'tis  a-told  me.  So 
much  an'  more  'an  'tis  worth,  so  as  to  get  us 
out." 

The  girl  flushed  crimson  and  her  lips  set 
firm.  It  was  just  such  a  bit  of  underhand 
craftiness  as  the  mind  of  Jacob  Handsford 
would  secretly  invent.  Oh  yes.  To  give  these 
poorer  neighbours,  whom  he  hated  like  poison, 
the  last  push  into  the  ditch  would  bring  him  the 
greatest  joy  in  life.  Her  heart  went  with  the 
Whites. 

"But  how  do  'ee  know?"  she  presently  asked, 
in  the  quick,  short  manner  that  betrays  a  doubt. 
After  all,  it  was  scarcely  to  be  believed  that  her 


IO2  A  Tangled  Web 

father  could  bring  himself  to  give  more  for 
anything  than  it  was  worth. 

"I  had  it  in  to  'The  Bear'  of  a  clerk  in  to 
lawyer  Winsford's  office,  that  Jacob  Hands- 
ford,  he  went  in  o'  Monday,  an'  offered  more 
'an  'tis  allowed  at  to  us.  For,  he  zaid,  he  could 
zee  the  widow  'ud  never  be  able  to  take  it  up — 
never  in  this  world.  Zo  he  thought  no  harm 
to  speak  in  time,  looking  to  what  was  sure  to 
turn  out.  I  do  know  'tis  true,  Ursie.  I've 
a-played  skittles  wi'  the  man,  manies  o'  times; 
zo  he  wouldn't  tell  me  a  lie.  But  he  dropped 
me  a  whisper  never  to  fall  behind  wi'  the  rent, 
or  maybe  they  mid  be  glad  o'  the  chance  to  run 
word  an'  take  away  the  place  to  once." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed  in  a  fury  of  indigna- 
tion. She  could  see  it  all.  She  could  hear  the 
very  tone  of  her  father's  voice,  saying  that  the 
Whites  could  never  do  at  Winterhays. 

"  'Tis  all  like  un  to  be  zo  undercreeping  and 
sly,"  she  cried,  and  the  words  became  pictures 
upon  her  lips  from  the  feeling  with  which  she 
uttered  them.  "He  do  covet  the  fields  because 
they  do  lie  zo  handy  to  his  own.  An'  he  do 
hate  'ee  all,  too,  like  the  very  old  Scratch  his- 
zelf .  He  do  love  money  zo  dearly  that  he  can't 


Warning  103 

abear  anybody  wi'  none  to  part  wi' — or  that 
do  spend  a  shilling  when  he  don't.  I  wish 
somebody  'ud  do  un  out  o'  it.  I  do.  It  'ud 
do  the  heart  o'  me  good  to  zee  un  lost  every 
penny-piece  that  he've  a-got  in  the  world." 

From  very  stress  of  wrath  she  stopped. 
Then,  because  her  anger  must  find  something 
to  fix  upon — something  that  could  feel  it,  as  it 
were — she  turned  sharply  upon  young  Jack. 

"An'  why  must  you  be  wasting  your  money 
at  'The  Bear,'  then;  an'  at  skittles  an'  foolery, 
when  it'll  take  every  farthing  you  can  beg  or 
borrow  to  hold  your  own?  I  know  what  it'll 
be.  Vather 'ull  gain  his  ends,  no  fear!  He'll 
follow  an'  follow  like  a  stoat  'pon  the  track  of 
a  rabbit.  Why,  you'll  be  out  o'  house  an' 
home,  as  you  do  go  on,  afore  William  have 
a-got  time  to  be  back." 

The  youth's  countenance  fell.  He  looked 
down  upon  the  ground  and  pulled  up  by  the 
roots  the  stubble  that  lay  close  to  his  hand.  His 
confusion  showed  quite  clearly  how  much  he 
felt  her  taunts  and  how  great  the  power  she 
held  over  him.  He  was  so  crestfallen  that  he 
could  not  find  a  word  of  sense  to  answer. 

"I'll— I'll  never  do  it  no  more,  Ursie,"  he 


104  A  Tangled  Web 

stammered,  humbly,  not  daring  to  look  her  in 
the  face. 

It  was  the  first  unkind  word  she  had  ever 
spoken  him.  All  their  talk  had  hitherto  been 
pleasant  and  her  manner  almost  caressing. 
For,  if  she  had  an  eye  to  his  follies,  well,  he 
knew  about  the  wasted  milk ;  and  so  they  took 
things  lightly  and  laughed  and  were  friends. 
They  got  along  together  as  thick  as  thieves. 
He  was  straight,  and  strong,  and  fresh  with 
the  ruddiness  of  early  youth.  Ever  since  they 
danced  at  the  revel,  his  fondness  for  her  grew 
and  grew  beyond  all  hiding.  It  showed 
through  everything  he  said  or  did.  But  what 
could  that  matter  ?  Her  two  or  three  years  to 
the  good  made  her  a  woman,  whilst  he,  al- 
though a  man  full-grown,  was  but  a  boy  in 
mind.  She  had  the  wit  to  treat  him  like  a 
youth  and  hold  her  place.  And  as  for  this 
"calf-love" — his  unspoken  but  clearly  discov- 
ered folly  for  one  older  than  himself  and  out 
of  all  reach — well,  he  knew  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  the  world  that  she  was  only  waiting  to  wed 
with  the  man  of  her  choice. 

It  softened  her  to  see  him  so  put  down. 

"Well  then,  zee  that  you  do  do  as  I  do  tell 


Warning  1 05 

*ee."  She  laughed  with  an  air  of  having  taken 
him  under  her  wing. 

"I  will,  Ursie,"  he  burst  out  warmly,  in  glad- 
ness at  this  return  of  her  good  humour.  "For 
there's  nobeddy  'pon  earth  I  do  think  o'  the 
zame  as  I  do  you." 

"All  very  well,  Jackie,"  she  said,  very  slowly, 
and  shaking  her  head. 

"  'Tis  true !"  he  cried,  raising  his  voice  and 
looking  her  straight  in  the  face. 

"Ah!  But  I  ben't  zo  foolish  as  to  take  in 
all  I  do  hear,"  she  told  him,  and  made  a  little 
grimace  with  her  red  lips.  But  although  there 
was  mockery  in  the  words,  in  her  heart  she  took 
delight  to  feel  the  power  of  her  womanhood, 
and  to  know  that  it  held  him  hand  and  foot  as 
it  were,  and  always  at  her  beck  and  call. 

He  grew  more  than  ever  in  earnest. 

"Why,  I'd  walk  barefoot  a  hundred  mile  to 
please  'ee,  Ursie.  I  would.  I'd  go  through 
vire  and  water  to " 

She  cut  him  short. 

"We  don't  hear  a  sound  o'  William,"  she 
said,  with  a  shy  enjoyment  in  it  too,  and  a 
glance  at  him  to  see  how  he  would  take  the 
blow. 


106  A  Tangled  Web 

His  talk  of  what  he  would  do  for  her  was 
brought  to  a  sudden  close.  All  the  eagerness 
and  gladness  fled  from  his  eyes.  Again  he 
was  dumfoundered,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
ground.  He  twisted  the  long  stubble  round 
his  fingers  and  crumbled  the  dry  earth  away 
from  the  roots. 

"No;  not  a  word,"  he  presently  answered, 
gloomily. 

"But  you  thought  to,  didn'  'ee,  Jack?"  she 
asked,  fondling  him  again  with  her  voice,  for 
she  could  not  leave  him  alone,  do  what  she 
would.  "There,  I  can  zee  you  did.  You  do 
show  it  by  the  look  o'  'ee." 

"  Tis  like  this,"  he  said,  grimly.  He  cast 
away  the  clod  and  struck  the  soil  from  his 
hands  as  he  spoke ;  yet  he  did  not  dare  to  look 
up.  "If  they  had  a-met  wi'  luck,  they  must  ha' 
come  into  port  wi'  the  prize.  But  I  reckon  the 
French  ships  be  scarce,  and  hard  to  fall  in  wi'. 
There's  a-many  have  a-bin  tookt,  an'  many  be 
afeard  to  zail,  though  I've  a-got  no  doubt  my- 
self but  what  he's  right  enough." 

"But  the  other  ship  mid  beat  his." 

"Not  very  likely.  She's  zo  well  found  for 
her  size  as  a  real  Queen's  man-o'-war." 


Warning  1 07 

"Yet,  for  all  that,  mid  turn  out  zo.  An' 
what  then,  Jack?" 

He  glanced  up  at  her  quickly  when  she  spoke 
his  name.  There  was  something  in  her  man- 
ner of  speaking  deeper  than  the  mere  words. 
Something  that  raised  a  thought — a  hope  that 
died  away  at  once  and  left  him  ashamed. 

"He'd  lie  in  a  French  prison  to  the  end  o'  the 
war,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "That  is,  if  he 
should  have  the  luck  to  live.  For  they  do  die 
of  fever  by  the  dozen,  zo  'tis  zaid." 

Ursula  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  her  face 
grew  very  grave.  She  might  have  to  live  at 
home  for  ever  (and  that  was  worse  than  any 
gaol)  if  things  turned  out  like  that. 

"That  mid  be  a  longful  while,"  she  sighed. 
"Next-never-come-day,  mayhap." 

What  with  the  matter  of  the  land  and  doubts 
about  the  money — and,  more  than  all,  a  secret 
feeling,  unspoken  but  understood,  growing  up 
in  the  mind  of  each — a  gloom  and  a  foreboding 
had  fallen  over  their  talk.  For  both  at  heart 
were  honest.  Yet,  as  the  eyes  of  Jack  fell  upon 
the  face  of  Ursula,  when  she  spoke  about  the 
dangers  of  war,  that  thought,  at  variance  to 
his  love  for  .William,  had  flashed  like  lightning 


io8  A  Tangled  Web 

across  his  brain.  Of  late,  he  had  gone  in  dread 
of  William's  return.  Even  though  his  brother 
should  come  to-morrow  with  enough  to  get 
back  all  the  farm,  the  moment  of  rejoicing,  of 
meeting  at  the  cross-roads  where  they  parted 
to  tramp  together  up  Bratton  Street,  must  fall 
upon  him  like  a  blow.  Ursula  would  take  no 
heed  after  that  In  a  month,  or  allowing  just 
time  enough  to  ask  out  the  banns,  she  would  be 
married.  Again  there  came  into  his  heart  a 
wish  that  William  might  not  come  back. 
Clear  and  unmistakable,  it  lasted  only  for  a 
moment — and  was  gone. 

They  had  been  talking  longer  than  they 
knew.  A  soft  shadow  from  the  wood  fell 
along  the  slope  of  the  hill  right  down  to  the 
sheaves  against  which  they  sat.  The  shouts 
of  the  harvesters  came  close  up  to  the  hedge- 
row, and  the  great  voice  of  Malachi  Webb, 
from  the  top  of  the  load,  kept  asking,  "Well, 
where's  young  Jack  a-got  to,  then  ?  Where's 
young  Jack?" 

"He's  only  gone  to  courty  Ursie  Handsford 
for  his  brother  William,  you  mid  depend," 
drawled  great-uncle  Tutchins,  and  the  sugges- 
tion was  received  with  a  roar  of  laughter ;  for. 


Warning  109 

all  the  relatives  were  again  at  Winterhays  that 
afternoon  for  the  widow's  harvest-home. 

"  Tis  too  much  to  put  upon  a  young  feller 
like  Jack,  then,  I  do  call,"  roared  Malachi. 

"Not  but  what — he  do  do  his  best — by  all 
accounts,''  jerked  out  great-uncle  Tutchins,  out 
of  breath,  as  he  raised  sheaf  after  sheaf  on  his 
pick.  Then  they  could  hear  his  fat,  double- 
cunning  chuckle  as  the  heavy  load  creaked  on. 

"I  had  better  be  getting  back  to  the  work, 
Ursie.  They've  most  a-done  there.  There's 
only  this  to  carr',  now,  an'  they'll  be  here  in  a 
jiffy,"  he  said,  in  her  ear. 

But  the  open  talk  of  the  harvesters  had  made 
Ursula  cautious  and  afraid.  She  quickly  laid 
one  hand  upon  his  arm  to  hold  him  from  get- 
ting up  until  the  waggon  had  passed  over  fur- 
ther from  the  hedge. 

"Hearky!"  all  at  once  she  whispered,  and 
held  her  finger  upraised.  Then  they  both  sat 
silent  to  listen. 

Sure  enough,  close  behind  them  could  be 
heard  a  quick  step  rattling  upon  the  stubble. 
It  loitered;  sometimes  stopping — and  then 
again  passing  on  from  stitch  to  stitch. 

They   remained   quite   still.      So   far,   they 


no  A  Tangled  Web 

were  out  of  sight.  Like  as  not,  whoever  it 
might  be  would  come  and  go  and  never  dream 
that  anyone  was  nigh. 

Then  from  behind  them  strode  the  widow. 
She  stood,  tall  and  gaunt-looking — for  worry 
and  summer  work  when  days  are  long  had 
made  her  thinner  than  formerly — beside  the 
sheaves  next-by.  Her  face  was  stern  and 
angry.  She,  too,  had  overheard.  That  folk 
calling  themselves  kin  should  talk  like  that 
made  her  blood  boil.  She  could  scarcely  keep 
from  going  there  right  and  calling  great-uncle 
Tutchins  a  fool  to  his  face.  Only  then  he 
would  go  home,  now  when  the  work  was  done, 
and  that  looked  as  if  she  saved  a  supper.  But 
although  the  widow  would  find  meat  and  drink 
of  the  best  for  anyone  who  came  to  her  house, 
there  must  be  no  joking  at  her  expense.  She 
would  give  it  to  great-uncle  Tutchins  even 
now.  Ah!  wait  until  by-and-bye-night,  when 
he  got  up  to  go  and  held  out  his  hand  to  bid 
good  bye.  Then  she  would  hold  herself  up 
}to  her  full  height  and  say,  "No,  Girt-uncle 
Tutchins,  I've  a-made  'ee  welcome  all  alike, 
but  I  do  only  care  to  shake  hands  wi'  my  true 
friends."  Or,  better  still,  perhaps,  to  shake 


Warning  1 1 1 

hands  and  let  him  tell  how  wonderful  well  he 
had  enjoyed  himself,  and  then  say,  "An'  glad 
I  be  to  hear  it,  Girt-uncle  Tutchins,  sure,  but 
I  should  ha'  bin  better  pleased  wi'  your  com- 
pany if  I  could  ha'  felt  better  pleased  wi'  your- 
zelf." 

An'  then  he  would  look  up  all  in  wonder- 
like,  and  ask,  "What's  that  then?"  and  she 
could  up  and  tell  him  straight  out,  how,  being 
her  own  uncle  by  name  and  blood,  she  did  take 
it  to  heart  that  he  should  hollar  ill  of  his  own 
kin  to  the  four  winds  for  all  the  world  to  hear 
— though  as  to  Malachi  Webb,  she  would  say, 
turning  round  to  Malachi  with  the  same,  he, 
of  course,  being  only  second  cousin  first  re- 
moved by  his  mother's  side,  and  well  known  to 
have  more  tongue  than  sense,  and  to  talk  more 
than  he  could  stan'  to — well,  his  words  being 
the  chakle  of  a  born  fool,  good  or  bad,  weighed 
of  no  consequence. 

Let  them  see  how  they  liked  that,  and  what 
their  feelings  must  be,  there  before  everybody, 
after  they  had  sat  down  to  so  fine  a  green  goose 
as  ever  was  fork  stuck  into. 

Yet,  though  this  excitement  was  fermenting 
in  the  widow's  brain,  all  her  mind  seemed  bent 


ii2  A  Tangled  Web 

upon  the  wheat.  She  stooped  to  pull  a  hand- 
ful of  green  stuff,  thistles  and  poppies,  from 
amongst  the  reed,  for  it  is  always  the  weeds 
that  heat  and  spoil  the  good  crop.  She  twisted 
it  together  tight  to  find  if  it  were  full  dry ;  and 
looked  at  it  with  all  the  doubtsome  care  for 
prudent  husbandry  that  falls  upon  a  woman 
lone  and  husbandless.  "Please  God,  we  ben't 
a  day  too  quick,"  she  muttered  to  herself — 
then  turned  her  head  and  saw  young  Jack  and 
Ursula  only  a  few  yards  away. 

Then  folk  had  reason  for  their  talk! 

Her  passion  for  respectability,  for  a  life  up- 
right as  the  wheaten  straw  and  clean  as  the 
yellow  apples  on  her  orchard  trees,  so  that  no 
finger  could  be  raised  in  scorn  or  laughter  at 
herself  or  any  of  her  belongings,  was  deeper 
even  than  the  love  of  Jacob  Handsford  for  his 
money. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  ground  close  to- 
gether, leaning  with  their  backs  against  the 
sheaves,  their  faces  turned  towards  each  other 
the  better  to  talk. 

Rizpah  White  was  furious.  The  sight  of 
them  at  that  moment,  the  gossip  of  the  har- 
vesters still  ringing  in  her  ears,  was  more  than 


Warning  113 

she  could  bear.  The  waggons  had  passed  out 
of  hearing  and  they  were  alone.  There  was 
nothing  to  hinder  or  to  put  a  check  upon  her 
tongue.  The  pent-up  anxiety  of  months  of 
widowhood,  the  wrath  already  burning  in  her 
heart,  and  now  her  anger  and  shame  at  be- 
haviour giving  good  cause  for  talk,  all  found  a 
voice,  as  with  half  a  dozen  hasty  strides  she 
stood  full  in  front  of  Ursula,  taking  no  heed 
of  Jack. 

"Zo  this  is  the  false-hearted,  double-faced 
huzzy  that  you  be,"  she  cried,  stamping  her 
foot,  "to  come  up  to  house,  day  by  day,  wi'  a 
face  all  smiles  an'  words  so  soft  as  butter,  an' 
all  the  while  to  be  toling  the  boy  from  his  work 
till  the  whole  parish  do  bide  a-grinning  to  zee 
how  you  do  go  on.  An'  pretty  going-ons,  too, 
there  must  be  for  folk  to  talk  as  they  do.  Why, 
Girt-tmcle  Tutchins  an'  the  rest  o'  'em  do  know 
no  more  than  the  dead  how  you've  a-crope 
away  this  day  to  hidey  under  the  sheaves  out 
o'  sight.  Yet  they've  a-zeed  enough  other 
times  and  places,  zim-zo,  to  make  the  name  o' 
Ursie  Handsford  a  bye-word  all  the  country 
round.  But  a  maid  wi'  her  name  in  every- 
body's mouth  is  no  better  than  a  fool,  if  she  do 


114  A  Tangled  Web 

think  to  wed  an  honest  man.  Why,  William, 
if  his  pride  is  but  half  so  hot  as  his  temper,  'ull 
throw  'ee  off  like  a  wold  shoe,  when  he  do  but 
catch  a  sound  o'  what's  a-said.  An'  right,  too. 
I  do  uphold  un  in  it.  For,  if  the  Whites  be 
poor,  sooner  'an  he  should  marry  wi'  a  thing 
of  a  flirtigig " 

Ursula,  crimson  as  a  poppy,  sprang  to  her 
feet.  The  word  hit  hard.  Harmless  as  it 
sounds,  it  meant  more  than  a  mere  flirtation 
and  carried  a  reproach.  It  was  a  name  to 
wound  and  leave  a  sting. 

"An'  he's  welcome  to  do  as  he  will,"  cried 
the  girl,  choking  with  tears  that  were  too  proud 
to  flow.  "An'  when  he  do  come  back,  you  can 
tell  un  zo — if  he  ever  do — and  let  un  listen  to 
your  lies  so  long  as  he  do  like.  For,  whether 
you  be  Whites — or  Blacks  more  likely — I'll 
never  come  anighst  any  o'  'ee  again — nor  set 
voot  across  your  door — nor  sit  down  by  your 
vire — not  if  he's  away  ten  year.  An'  mayhap, 
't'ull  be  you  he'll  turn  upon  when  he  do  hear 
the  rights  o'  it,  and  then " 

But,  just  then,  the  last  load,  leaning  from 
the  hill  as  if  it  were  like  to  fall,  came  slowly 
jolting  along  the  deep  ruts  through  the  gate; 


Warning  115 

with  it  came  all  the  harvesters,  whoaing  and 
shouting,  as  a  wheel  struck  against  the  post. 
Thus,  the  dispute,  so  far  as  talking  was  con- 
cerned, must  needs  be  brought  to  a  sudden  end. 

Smarting  and  quivering  under  the  insult, 
Ursula  turned  away  and  hurried  home.  She 
would  never  look  at  one  of  them  again.  In  her 
anger,  she  hoped  with  all  her  heart  that  her 
father  would  fiddle  away  the  land.  And  serve 
the  widow  right,  too.  For  what  had  Ursula 
ever  done,  more  than  pass  a  harmless  word  to 
have  a  laugh — unless  'twere  to  talk  to  young 
Jack  for  his  own  good? 

As  to  the  feast  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  that  had 
made  life,  of  late,  worth  living,  at  that  moment 
she  gave  not  a  thought  to  such  things.  She 
was  carried  away  with  rage  to  think  they 
should  tattle  when  she  had  done  no  harm.  She 
was  all  the  more  angry  because  of  a  secret 
knowledge  that — though  she  would  never 
bring  herself  to  break  with  William — her 
wandering  fancy  had  alighted  upon  young 
Jack. 


n6  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  VI 
HALLOWMAS    EVE 

It  was  near  the  end  of  fall.  There  had  been 
frosts,  and  the  elms  were  bare.  The  leaves 
upon  the  oaks  at  Winterhays  turned  parched 
and  brown,  and  strips  of  orchard  all  along  the 
hill  looked  black,  with,  here  and  there,  a  heap 
of  shining,  yellow  apples  gleaming  out  of  the 
gloom  between  the  rows  of  mossy,  leaning 
trunks. 

From  every  little  house  and  homestead  down 
the  road  came  the  creaking  of  the  cider-press, 
the  sour  smell  of  fruit,  crushed  between  layers 
of  straw,  and  dripping  its  juice  down  into  the 
vat.  The  cider-making  went  on  all  day  long; 
and,  after  dark  by  candle-light,  Jacob  Hands- 
ford  stayed  out  in  the  pound-house,  paring 
down  the  sides,  and  giving  another  screw  to 
his  apple-cheese. 

His  habit  now  was  to  come  in  late,  eat  his 
bit  o'  bread  and  cheese  and  drink  his  cup  of 
cider  by  the  hearth,  and  then  to  bed.  When  he 
went,  the  rest  must  go.  So  the  time  for  talk- 


Hallowmas  Eve  117 

ing  was  short,  and  he  and  Ursula  had  little  or 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  He  knew  she 
no  longer  went  to  the  Whites',  but  had  never 
asked  her  why.  Ah !  like  enough  the  maid  was 
affronted  when  they  sent  the  little  gimcrack 
sheaf  to  her  father.  For  'tis  one  thing  to  laugh 
at  a  joke  out  in  field,  but  quite  another  to  see 
it  a-brought  home  to  your  own  door,  like.  In 
his  double-cunning  way,  Jacob  knew  human 
nature  well — the  little  weaknesses  and  the 
worst  side  of  it,  that  is — so  he  only  chuckled 
to  himself  and  was  shrewd  enough  to  hold  his 
tongue.  To  twit  Ursula  was  to  drive  a  maid 
of  her  spirit  back  into  their  arms.  Ho !  ho !  wait 
a  month  or  two ;  maybe  Ladyday,  or  the  Mile- 
mas  after  that,  and  Bratton  would  see  the 
backs  o'  'em  every  one.  No  more  Whites, 
Jacks  nor  Williams,  up  to  hill  after  that. 

The  girl  noted  his  silence;  but  that  was  his 
secret  way,  now  he  was  plotting  in  his  head 
all  the  while  how  to  get  hold  of  the  land. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  Jack  since  they  sat 
together  beside  the  sheaves.  The  talk  over- 
heard in  the  harvest  field  was  a  warning  to  her ; 
for  Ursula  was  straightforward  and  right- 
minded  as  a  girl  need  be,  except  that,  for  the 


u8  A  Tangled  Web 

peace  of  her  life,  she  was  driven  to  fool  her 
father  when  she  could.  But  this  was  only  his 
own  craftiness  turning  back  upon  himself.  It 
no  more  proved  the  maid  dishonest  than  hot 
words  spoken  in  anger  can  be  taken  as  a  sure 
sign  of  a  bad  heart. 

So,  for  the  most  part  in  pride,  but  something 
in  fear  also  for  her  good  name,  she  kept  out  of 
the  way.  Jack  was  out  to  plough  one  morn- 
ing as  she  passed  along  the  footpath  through 
the  stubble  ground.  Rooks  were  flying  close 
above  his  head  to  pitch  upon  the  upturned  soil 
behind.  Midway  down  the  furrow,  he  pulled 
up  his  team  and  called  to  her.  The  field  was 
on  a  slant,  and  open  from  below  to  all  the 
world;  so  on  she  went,  with  only  a  nod  and 
just  his  name  to  pass  the  time  of  day.  And, 
yesterday,  he  was  apple-picking  in  the  orchard 
against  the  road.  He  left  the  tall,  ashen  pole, 
with  which  he  knocked  the  red  and  yellow 
apples  down,  leaning  amongst  the  boughs,  and 
ran  across  to  hedge,  to  wait  to  have  a  word  as 
she  came  by.  But  Ursula  caught  sight  of  him 
and  turned  back. 

Yet,  all  day  long,  young  Jack  was  in  her 
mind.  Do  as  she  would,  she  could  think  of 


Hallowmas  Eve  119 

nothing  else.  She  pictured  him  running  in  to 
catch  the  dog  right  under  the  bull's  horns,  and 
she  held  her  breath.  She  remembered  how  he 
had  kissed  her  after  the  revel  dance.  Then  she 
dwelt  on  quiet  summer  evenings  up  to  farm, 
and  how  they  had  sat  together  on  a  stile,  whilst 
more  than  once  he  read  out  of  a  chap-book, 
bought  from  fair,  how  to  call  up  in  dreams 
your  own  true  love  by  rubbing  lemons  on  the 
four  post  bed,  or  how  to  see  the  man  you  were 
to  wed,  over  your  shoulder  in  the  looking- 
glass.  To  tell  truth,  she  had  played  with 
edged  tools  to  the  wounding  of  her  own  heart. 
Whilst  she  trifled  with  the  boy,  she  hurt  her- 
self. She  had  caught  such  an  inkling  after 
him  she  dared  not  go  and  talk — that  was  the 
long  and  short  of  it.  For  she  went  in  dread 
of  William,  too.  He  was  so  hot  and  jealous, 
with  such  a  way  and  a  look  about  him  when 
his  blood  was  up,  that  made  her  tremble  only 
at  the  thought.  And  sometimes,  for  a  minute 
or  two,  her  heart  came  home.  There  had  been 
wild  gales  of  late,  and  though  their  house  stood 
under  shelter  of  the  hill,  in  the  great  open 
chimney  every  night  she  could  hear  the  moan- 
ing and  the  mingled  threats  and  wailing  of  the 


120  A  Tangled  Web 

wind.  The  sound  made  her  think  of  the  sailor 
far  away  at  sea. 

The  storm  grew  and  rose  into  a  tempest — 
then  sank  with  a  sudden  lull. 

It  shook  Ursula  to  the  very  soul,  and  seemed 
to  tell  of  a  ship  lost,  and  that  William  would 
not  be  lucky  in  his  voyage.  Then  she  would 
shudder  and  shrink  back  into  the  corner.  He 
loved  her  true,  and  she  softened  in  awe  of  the 
dangers  he  must  undergo. 

Yet,  if  William  should  chance  never  to  come 
back — then 

At  once  Ursula  shook  herself  free  from 
what,  for  the  second,  was  like  to  grow  into  a 
wish. 

It  was  the  last  of  October,  and  Ursula  was 
in  the  kitchen  alone.  Quietly  she  went  out  to 
the  door  and  looked  around  the  barton  and  the 
stalls.  The  sky  was  clear  and  frosty.  Millions 
of  stars  shone  overhead,  for  it  was  quite  night 
although  the  last  pale  glow  of  day  lingered 
fading  behind  the  western  hill.  Her  father 
was  still  at  work.  The  light  of  his  lantern 
shone  through  the  cider-house  window  and  fetf 
dimly  upon  the  top  of  the  black  faggot-pile  in 
the  corner. 


Hallowmas  Eve  121 

Ursula  tripped  quietly  across.  With  a 
glance  at  the  open  pound-house  door,  she 
noiselessly  piled  up  an  armful  of  sticks  and 
logs — as  much  as  she  could  hold  and  carry, 
hands,  arms,  apron  and  all — and  made  haste 
back  into  the  house.  She  threw  them  down 
beside  the  hearth.  Then  she  chose  the  biggest 
and  the  best,  and  hid  them  all  about  the  place. 
A  heap  behind  the  settle;  a  handful  in  the 
dresser  cupboard;  and  a  stick  or  two,  the  size 
of  her  handwrist  and  long  and  straight,  she 
stood  upright  inside  the  kitchen  clock.  She 
had  scarcely  finished  and  swept  the  floor  tidy 
of  tell-tale  bits  of  bark  and  scraps  of  dried 
moss,  when  her  father  came  in. 

The  fire  was  burning  brightly  and  he  sat 
down  to  warm  himself,  holding  out  his  palms 
to  catch  the  heat.  For  the  last  week  or  two 
he  had  been  quite  jocular — for  him.  Ursula 
had  seen  him  like  it,  at  times,  before,  but  only 
when  he  had  made  a  bargain  or  sold  for  more 
than  he  thought  to  do  at  fair.  To-day,  he  had 
not  been  from  home.  She  quickly  put  out  his 
supper;  and,  whilst  he  munched  his  bread  and 
cheese,  for  once  in  his  life,  Jacob  Handsford 

talked — really  talked.     Yet,  even  to-night,  in 
9 


122  A  Tangled  Web 

the  main — being  in  a  merry  mood — his  conver- 
sation turned  on  other  folks'  mishaps. 

"There's  Malachi  Webb,"  he  told  her,  look- 
ing round  with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  speak- 
ing mysteriously,  as  if  in  fear  of  being  over- 
heard, "have  a-lost  two  beastes.  He  can't  tell 
how.  An'  last  week  his  ho'se  fell  into  ditch, 
an'  got  so  scammed  he  ha'n't  a-bin  able  to  work 
un  since.  He's  a'most  to  his  wits'  end  to  know 
what  to  do.  He  do  talk  loud  that  somebody 
have  a-witched  un,  he!  he!  an'  do  come  an' 
ride  a  ho'seback  'pon  the  chest  of  un,  every 
night  of  his  life,  so  as  he  can't  sleep  a  wink. 
Ha!  ha!  He've  a-bin  to  the  wise-man  up  to 
Blackford  to  have  it  a-tookt  off.  For  the  wise- 
man  have  a-promised  to  put  on  such  a  spell  as 
shall  lay  he  that  do  trouble  un  in  the  Red  Sea. 
I  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  Ursie,  Malachi'll  come  to 
want.  Fust,  he'll  borrow  an'  find  it  hard  to 
pay,  an'  then  he'll  sink  down  an'  struggle  on  till 
he  do  drop  out.  Times  out  o'  number  I've  a- 
zeed  the  same." 

Jacob  turned  back  towards  the  fire  and 
grimly  shook  his  head.  To  the  girl,  witchcraft 
was  so  real  a  danger,  that  even  to  hear  the  word 
brought  a  shudder  that  crept  to  her  finger-tips. 


Hallowmas  Eve  123 

"Ah!"  cried  her  father,  again  glancing 
sharply  up,  "There's  more  talk  'an  truth  in 
what  they  do  tell  us  about  that.  Malachi's 
ho'se  ud  a-bin  pulled  out  if  he  had  a-bin  about. 
'Tis  they  that  do  go  away  a-pleasuring  that  do 
find  these  things.  Misfortune  do  drop  in  upon 
'em  when  they  be  out,  ha !  an'  bide  till  they  be 
back.  Ay,  an'  live  wi'  'em  all  their  lives,  like 
as  not.  Then  they  do  blame  it  to  witching.  I 
wur  never  witched,  myzelf.  But,  Lord  alive! 
Ursie,"  he  stopped,  and  then  his  voice  fell 
lower  and  more  secret  still ;  "there's  they  about 
do  love  un  zo  well  that,  if  they  could  witch 
Jacob  Handsford,  they  'ud  never  leave  un  wi' 
a  thread  to  his  back." 

Then  he  sat  chuckling  to  think  that,  what- 
ever might  happen  to  a  fool  like  Malachi  Webb, 
it  could  never  fall  to  the  power  of  any  man  to 
work  Jacob  Handsford  any  harm. 

The  thought  pleased  him  so  much  that  it  sent 
a  crumb  the  wrong  way,  so  that  he  well-nigh 
choked  and  fell  a-coughing  to  save  his  life. 

He  was  a  spare  eater,  being  so  small,  per- 
haps, and  he  laid  aside  his  plate.  He  would 
have  no  more;  and  he  stood  up,  the  better  to 
catch  his  breath  again,  inside  the  chimney. 


124  A  Tangled  Web 

"But  hearky,  Ursie,  the  witch  don't  live  that 
can  do  un  any  hurt.  Not  in  mind — nor  limb — 
nor  pocket.  Zo  there!  Nor  nobody  can't 
touch  what  he've  a-got.  An'  look  here,  maid, 
if  you  should  chance  to  marry  a  careful  man, 
one  o'  my  own  sort,  looky-zee,  he  mid  come 
here  to  live,  an'  we'd  keep  one  house  an'  get 
hold  o'  more  land.  Ay,  an'  do  our  work  our- 
zelves  wi'  little  help  an'  cost  out  o'  pocket. 
Then,  one  day,  you  should  ha'  so  much  as  any 
two  round  here.  As  any  dree.  You  should, 
'pon  my  life." 

It  was  Ursula's  breaking  off  with  the  Whites 
and  her  woebegone  look  that  had  opened  this 
tempting  prospect  before  his  eyes. 

Against  the  wall,  opposite  the  window,  stood 
an  oaken  bureau,  with  drawers  and  a  slanting 
cover,  turning  back  upon  rests  drawn  out  each 
side,  thus  making  a  place  to  write.  In  it  he 
kept  the  book  in  which  he  cast  his  figures,  and 
there  also  he  put  away  and  hoarded  any  letter 
that  might  chance  to  come.  To-night  he  did 
not  go  to  bed  at  once  according  to  his  custom. 
He  took  a  rushlight  and  went  over  to  his  desk. 
The  lock  was  old  and  broken ;  but  no  one  in  the 
house  could  read,  and,  such  papers  being  no 


Hallowmas  Eve  125 

good  to  steal,  Jacob  had  never  put  out  money 
to  buy  a  new.  That  night  he  stayed  up  full  an 
hour  poring  over  his  book. 

Ursula  sat  upon  the  settle  and  watched  him. 

What  web  was  he  spinning  in  his  brain,  now, 
that  made  him  so  busy  all  at  once  ?  And  what 
was  the  meaning  of  all  this  talk?  He  bent  his 
head  close  over  the  paper;  for  the  rushlight 
gave  but  a  spark,  though,  in  the  gloom  of  that 
part  of  the  kitchen,  enough  to  light  his  face 
and  show  his  sharp  nose  and  shaggy  eyebrow 
against  the  darkness  of  the  wood.  His  lips  he 
held  apart  in  eager  expectation,  as  he  set  down 
monies  with  a  crow-quill,  very  small  and  aslant 
in  the  margin  at  the  topmost  corner  of  the  page, 
and  added  up  the  sum.  The  girl  never  liked 
him  less  than  as  she  looked  at  him  that  night. 
So  he  would  be  willing  for  her  to  marry  if  the 
man  had  money  and  could  work.  What  did 
he  care  so  long  as  she  was  made  to  serve  his 
ends  ?  The  want  of  hands  to  till  and  reap  the 
farm  had  put  this  into  the  head  of  him,  and, 
likely  enough,  in  his  eye  he  had  got  her  future 
husband,  too.  She  pictured  the  house  and  the 
other  careful  man  like  himself.  One  of  his 
own  sort!  It  sounded  like  a  grim  joke.  As 


126  A  Tangled  Web 

true  as  heaven,  there  were  no  two  such  in  the 
wide  world.  She  could  have  laughed  outright 
if  he  had  not  been  so  near. 

Then  both  his  behaviour  and  words  became 
linked  in  her  mind  with  his  scheming  to  get  the 
farm  of  Winterhays.  Putting  these  with  what 
young  Jack  had  told  her  before,  she  now  felt 
sure  of  it,  beyond  doubt.  The  two  holdings 
could  be  worked  from  one  house — that  was  the 
true  meaning  of  what  he  said.  He  felt  so  cer- 
tain of  carrying  out  his  scheme  that  he  was 
planning  beforehand  and  counting  up  the  cost. 

Ursula  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  she 
could  read.  The  desire  was  nothing  fresh  or 
new.  Often  before,  with  the  thought  of  her 
own  money — that  money  which  she  could  not 
get — came  a  hankering  to  pry  into  his  books 
and  papers  and  worm  out  where  it  was  put  and 
what  had  gone  with  it.  To  her  simple,  coun- 
try mind  this  was  not  a  mere  sum  with  so  much 
interest  added.  It  was  that  particular  money, 
left  her  by  will,  by  great-uncle  Jeremy  Hands- 
ford,  had  on  such  a  day,  and  thereupon  put  out 
to  use.  To-night,  also,  there  came  upon  her  a 
craving  to  know  what  he  was  about — whether 
he  had  got  anything  settled  for  Winterhays. 


Hallowmas  Eve  127 

If  she  were  only  a  scholar  to  find  out!  But 
then,  to  be  sure,  he  would  keep  it  under  key, 
and 

Abruptly  he  got  up,  blew  out  the  rushlight, 
and  shut  up  the  desk. 

"Come  on,  come  on." 

He  snapped  the  words  out  with  the  fretful 
haste  of  one  who  has  hindered  time  himself  and 
now  comes  to  hurry  other  folk. 

Ursula  rose  and  stepped  out  upon  the  floor. 

He  went  himself  and  lifted  the  logs,  one  at 
a  time,  from  off  the  fire  and  stood  them  upright 
in  the  chimney  corners  to  go  out.  Every  little 
stick  no  bigger  than  his  finger  he  put  back  to 
save.  Then  he  stooped,  bending  nearly  two- 
double  over  the  hearth,  and  spuddled  and  raked 
the  ashes  all  abroad  with  a  little  pair  of  brass 
tongs.  Ursula  stood  like  a  post,  but  did  not 
offer  to  lend  a  hand.  She  had  watched  him  at 
the  like  performance  hundreds  of  times  before, 
and  hated  him  the  more  for  it  every  night  of 
her  life. 

"Come  on,  come  on." 

He  glanced  around  to  see  that  everything 
was  safe,  and,  sheltering  his  rushlight  with  his 
hand,  went  shuffling  out  of  the  door. 


128  A  Tangled  Web 

Scarcely  had  he  turned  his  head  when  trie 
girl  stepped  behind  him — hastily,  with  her  foot, 
scraped  a  few  of  the  glowing  coals  together  in 
a  heap,  and  followed  close  at  his  heels. 

An  hour  passed.  The  last  flickering  green 
flame  had  long  gone  out.  Even  the  click  of  the 
cooling  logs  had  ceased  when  Ursula  came  feel- 
ing her  way  back  to  the  hearth.  The  shuttered 
kitchen  was  darker  than  the  night.  Though 
she  could  have  walked  the  house  blindfold,  and 
put  her  hand  on  cup  or  plate  or  tinderbox — as 
she  did,  without  fear,  every  winter  morning 
before  light — she  was  afraid.  She  stopped  to 
listen  by  the  door.  Then  shut  it  fast  without 
a  sound,  took  up  her  store  of  sticks  behind  the 
settle,  and  went  across  and  knelt  upon  the 
stones. 

The  embers  of  a  wood  fire  will  keep  alive  for 
hours.  A  faint  glow  still  peered  through  the 
white  ashes  of  the  pile  Ursula  had  made,  and 
she  bent  forward  and  blew  upon  it  with  her 
breath.  It  burst  into  a  flame.  She  chose  the 
smallest  of  her  sticks  and  snapped  them  off, 
reached  for  a  few  half -burnt  and  charred  logs 
that  her  father  had  laid  aside,  built  them  all 
together,  and  blew  again.  In  a  minute  arose 


Hallowmas  Eve  129 

a  crackling  blaze  that  lighted  up  the  place. 
Then,  from  here  and  there,  she  fetched  her  logs 
and  soon  made  herself  a  roaring  fire. 

She  brought  a  low  stool  and  seated  herself 
in  the  middle,  straight  in  face  of  the  sooty, 
notched  chimney-crooks  upon  which  crocks  and 
kettles  used  to  be  hung.  For  a  long  while  she 
sat  quite  still.  It  had  taken  her  much  courage 
to  creep  down  upon  the  errand  on  which  she 
was  bent.  She  had  begun  to  undress,  and  was 
not  clad  the  same  as  when  she  went  upstairs. 
There  was  an  old  belief  that  a  maid,  who  ate 
an  apple  and  then  combed  her  hair  on  Hallow- 
mas Eve,  might  see  the  man  she  was  to  marry 
looking  from  behind  her  into  the  glass.  Her 
red  hair,  strong  and  thick,  hung  down  her  back, 
though  some  of  it,  from  her  leaning  forward, 
had  fallen  loosely  around  her  ears  and  dropped 
in  front  over  her  shoulders.  She  had  slipped 
off  her  skirt.  Her  short  petticoat  and  her  hose 
were  all  of  crimson,  and  her  shoes,  brought 
down  in  her  hand  and  just  put  on,  a  ruddy 
brown.  The  dancing  fire-light  shone  and 
glanced  and  flashed  and  played  upon  her. 
There  was  something  uncanny  in  her  look,  as 
though  she  were  a  witch,  or,  more  likely,  a 


130  A  Tangled  Web 

maid  bewitched,  as,  with  lips  parted,  and  half 
afraid  to  move,  she  stared  into  the  flames. 

At  last,  into  the  pocket  of  her  petticoat  stole 
her  hand.  She  drew  out  a  handful  of  nuts  and 
laid  them  in  her  lap.  Then,  taking  heart,  she 
hastily  dropped  a  couple  into  the  ashes. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  It  was  natural 
to  say  one  thing,  but  all  her  wish  and  desire 
prompted  another.  Yet  she  must  be  quick. 

With  a  stick  she  pushed  the  first  into  the  very 
midst  of  the  heat. 

"William  White." 

Her  lips  did  but  just  form  the  words,  but 
made  no  sound.  She  thrust  the  other  nut  for- 
ward until  the  two  lay  side  by  side,  and  louder, 
but  still  in  an  awesome  whisper,  spoke  her  own 
name. 

"Ursula  Handsford." 

He  was  her  sweetheart,  "in  good  right"  as 
they  say,  but  she  watched  the  nuts  with  a  sink- 
ing fear  that  the  omen  might  prove  fair.  For 
they  neither  burnt  nor  burst,  but  stood  together 
and  blackened  amongst  the  embers. 

The  fire  had  blazed  out  its  first  fury,  and 
glowed  now  with  a  steady  light  and  quiet 
strength.  A  cricket  kept  chirping  in  the  cor- 


Hallowmas  Eve  131 

ner.  The  slow  ticking  of  the  tall  clock,  which 
the  ear  never  heeded  amidst  the  sounds  of  day, 
put  on  a  mystery  and  solemnity  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night. 

Suddenly,  William  went  off  with  a  crack  that 
carried  him  back  into  the  chimney ;  and  the  nut 
called  Ursula  leapt  bang  up  against  the  red  pet- 
ticoat, so  that  the  girl  could  not  help  a  scream 
as  she  thrust  away  her  stool. 

Then  they  were  not  made  for  each  other. 
She  breathed  again.  Yet  this  was  but  half  of 
it,  after  all.  And  now,  eagerly,  without  wast- 
ing a  second,  Ursula  chose  two  other  nuts,  laid 
them  down  upon  the  hearth,  and  pushed  them 
among  the  live  coals  with  her  fingers,  so  that 
they  were  close-touching  like  peas  in  a  pod. 

"John  White,"  she  said,  "an' — an' — Ursula 
Handsford." 

In  a  minute  they  were  both  afire.  They 
burnt  like  candles  with  a  steady  flame,  and  went 
out  near  about  together.  Ursula  first,  as  she 
might  look  to  do,  being  the  elder  by  a  year  or 
two.  Truly,  they  were  like  man  and  wife,  who 
live  in  union  all  their  years,  and  fall  to  ashes  in 
one  grave. 

A  thrill  of  gladness  sprang  up  in  Ursula's 


132  A  Tangled  Web 

heart.  The  two  omens  did  not  disagree,  but 
foretokened  as  she  would  have  them  do.  There 
were  times  to  try  these  things,  and  then  the 
signs  came  true.  And  this  was  Hallowmas 
Eve,  when  all  the  pixies  were  abroad,  the 
strongest  night  for  spells  of  all  the  year. 

Yet,  when  she  ate  the  apple,  a  hedgerow 
crab,  there  came  no  vision  in  the  glass. 

Close  upon  her  delight  followed  a  misgiving 
that  this  burning  of  nuts  might  mean  little  or 
nothing.  It  was  so  easy.  Maidens  for  the 
most  part  laughed  when  they  talked  of  it; 
though,  to  be  sure,  it  had  told  the  truth  hun- 
dreds of  times  as  they  all  could  well  vouch  for. 

There  flashed  upon  the  brain  of  Ursula  a 
recollection  of  a  spell  Jack  had  read  out  from 
the  chap-book.  It  could  bring  up  the  very 
figure  and  presence  of  the  man,  just  as  he 
would  be,  even  if  the  maid  had  never  set  eyes 
on  him  before.  But  the  thought  of  that  made 
her  shudder.  Besides,  to  do  it  she  must  go  out 
in  the  dark. 

No  doubt  it  was  a  sure  thing.  The  very 
names  of  people  who  had  done  it  and  the  places, 
too,  were  certain  knowledge.  She  got  up  from 
her  stool,  walked  half-across  the  kitchen,  and 


Hallowmas  Eve  133 

then  stopped.  She  had  not  the  heart  to  go  on. 
Yet  it  was  nothing  to  do — to  cross  the  barton 
and  open  the  barn.  Any  other  night,  if  needs 
be,  she  would  have  gone  without  thought. 
Scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  she  went  into 
the  milkhouse  and  peered  out  of  the  window 
into  the  yard.  From  the  deeper  darkness 
under  a  roof  the  starlight  without  looked  quite 
bright.  She  could  make  out  the  lines  of  the 
paving-stones,  the  pump,  the  tree  upon  which 
the  milk  pails  were  hung  to  drain  and  keep  dry, 
the  wall  and  gable  of  the  barn.  To  work  the 
spell  aright,  she  must  be  unseen  and  alone. 
Everything  was  fitting.  After  all,  it  had  been 
done  hundreds  of  times,  and  nobody  ever  one 
bit  the  worse — or  the  book  would  have  given  a 
warning,  certain  sure. 

She  drew  the  dairy-house  bolt  and  went  out, 
taking  the  barn's  key  from  under  the  eaves  as 
she  passed.  She  was  to  stand  midway  upon 
the  barn's  floor  where  they  threshed  the  corn, 
with  both  doors  open,  and  raise  three  times  the 
winnowing  sieve  above  her  head.  Then  her 
future  husband  would  pass  through,  the  way  o* 
the  wind,  in  his  everyday  dress,  in  the  very  ap- 
pearance of  his  trade,  calling,  or  degree. 


134  A  Tangled  Web 

But  having  found  courage  to  start  on  her 
undertaking,  Ursula  was  carried  forward,  in 
spite  of  her  fears,  on  a  whirl  of  growing  ex- 
citement. 

All  her  preparations  were  quickly  ready — 
the  heavy  doors  pushed  back,  the  sieve  found 
— she  scarcely  knew  how. 

At  the  back,  the  barn  opened  towards  the 
fields,  and  above  a  dark  line  of  orchard  tops,  but 
just  below  the  black  durn-head  of  the  door, 
shone  a  great  planet,  sharp  and  bright,  to  which 
the  stars  around  looked  pale  and  small.  There 
was  not  a  sound  of  bird,  or  bat,  or  any  moving 
thing,  and  barely  a  breath  of  wind. 

The  girl's  limbs  shook  and  trembled  so  that 
she  had  scarcely  strength  to  stand  and  raise  her 
arms.  But  she  nerved  herself  to  the  effort. 

Once — twice 

The  sieve  dropped  from  her  hands.  With  a 
cry  she  stepped  back,  and,  to  save  herself  from 
falling,  clutched  the  wooden  wall  that  parts  the 
raised  threshing-floor  from  the  bay  of  the  barn. 
Something  she  saw  that  terrified  her,  brought 
her  heart  into  her  throat  and  stopped  her 
breath,  yet  she  could  not  turn  away  her  eyes. 
Dim  in  the  gloom,  yet  unmistakable  in  the  bet- 


Hallowmas  Eve  135 

ter  light  of  the  doorway,  stood  the  dusky  figure 
of  a  man.  It  stopped — moved  slowly  toward 
her  across  the  floor.  Then  stopped  again. 

"Ursie." 

Her  name  was  spoken  in  a  low  whisper  that 
filled  the  barn  and  died  away  amongst  the 
rafters  and  the  roof.  Yet  she  knew  the  voice 
of  the  young  Jack  White.  She  was  afraid. 
She  did  not  dare  reply.  Even  if  she  could  have 
found  the  heart  to  speak,  she  had  no  tongue  to 
utter  word,  but  still  clung  to  the  board,  and 
held  her  breath  in  fear  she  might  be  heard. 

"Ursie.  Where  be  ?  I  saw  the  door  ope  as 
I  passed  along  the  path — gwaine  home  from 
uncle  Moggses  nut-crack  night.  We've  a-had 
pretty  high-digees  sure  'nough — what  wi'  the 
bean-mow,  an'  the  hempseed,  an'  one  thing  an' 
t'other.  I  thought  what  you  were  up  to,  Ursie, 
when  I  heard  the  hinge  go  creak.  I  want  to 
talk  to  'ee,  Ursie.  \Vhere  be?" 

So  it  was  truly  he  and  no  ghost. 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  sigh,  half  gasp  and  half 
sob.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  groped 
and  found  her  in  the  dark.  At  once  she 
clutched  him  by  the  arm  and  held  him  fast. 

"Why,  you  be  all  to  a  trem'le,"  he  began. 


136  A  Tangled  Web 

"Oh,  Jack.  I  be  gallied  a'most  to  death," 
she  panted.  "For  little  sooner  did  I  raise  my 
han'  than  you  walked  in  an'  I  thought — I 
thought — I  thought  mid-be  the  devil  did  do  it, 
Jack." 

"Come  on  an'  zit  down !"  he  begged  of  her. 
"Your  vather  brought  in  a  wheat-mow,  only 
to-day  morning,  for  I  chanced  to  zee  un  myself. 
Come  in  on  the  sheaves." 

She  was  plaint  as  a  child.  He  led  her  off 
the  barn's  floor  into  the  right-hand  bay,  and 
they  sat  down  close  together,  side  by  side,  very 
much  as  they  were  when  last  they  talked  in  the 
harvest-field.  Only  now  the  widow's  open 
speech  had  said  all  that  before  was  hidden! 
And  Ursula's  wits  were  scattered,  too,  with 
the  fright  and  strangeness  of  this  meeting. 

"I  thought  I  should  never  come  nighst  'ee 
again,  Ursie,  to  talk  to  'ee,  that  is.  I  did  lie 
in  wait  to  have  a  word,  but  you  did  keep  out 
o'  the  way.  There,  I've  a-bin  wild  about  'ee, 
an'  I've  a-bin  a  fool,  too,  an'  spended  money 
an' — an'  all.  You  kep'  me  out  o'  it  afore,  by 
what  you  did  use  to  zay.  I  don't  care  now — 
not  what  do  hap  nor  what  I  do  do.  For  I  do 
love  'ee  dearly,  I  do,  an'  always  shall." 


Hallowmas  Eve  137 

As  he  said  it  he  drew  her  closer  to  him,  but 
doubtfully,  as  if  half  afraid  of  meeting  only 
with  upbraiding. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  the  outcome  of  her 
fright,  her  fears,  and  the  joy  his  words  gave 
her,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
held  him  tight.  Her  loose  hair  was  across  her 
cheek.  He  thrust  his  fingers  amongst  it  and 
against  her  throat.  There  was  no  need  of 
words.  They  kissed  each  other  again  and 
again,  with  all  the  burning  gladness  of  a  full 
love  for  the  first  time  acknowledged.  There 
could  be  no  trifling — no  disguising  of  their 
passion  after  that. 

His  kisses  burnt  her.  She  could  bear  no 
more  and  turned  aside  her  lips.  A  sense  of 
danger  crept  over  her,  a  knowledge  of  the 
night,  a  dread  lest  another  might  detect  the 
open  door,  as  young  Jack  had  done.  She  drew 
herself  away  and  pushed  him  from  her. 

"I  must  go  in,"  she  said,  and  the  words 
sounded  sudden  and  harsh. 

A  recollection  of  William  came  upon  him. 
He  had  loved  and  worshipped  this  elder  broth- 
er in  no  half-hearted  way.  He  would  never 

again  be  able  to  look  William  in  the  face. 
10 


138  A  Tangled  Web 

"Don't  'ee  go,  Ursie,"  he  entreated,  and  took 
her  by  the  arm.  "Bide  a  bit,  an'  tell  what  we 
shall  do." 

He  was  "so  wonderful  easy-led,"  as  Rizpah 
had  before  declared.  Their  love  was  come  to 
light.  There  was  no  going  back.  He  saw  the 
plight  to  which  it  led  them,  but  he  relied  upon 
Ursula  already,  and  was  willing,  without  ques- 
tion, to  act  as  she  might  say. 

They  stayed  awhile  and  talked  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

Neither  one  could  see  the  faintest  glimmer 
of  the  other's  face;  for  the  barn  was  lighted 
only  by  the  open  doors,  and  the  bay  in  which 
the  sheaves  were  placed  was  dim  even  in  broad 
day.  But  she  grasped  his  hand  and  held  it  on 
her  lap. 

There  came  to  Ursula  a  longing  to  explain 
and  excuse  herself. 

"I  tell  'ee,  Jack,  I — I  was  never  in  love  wi' 
William,"  she  stammered,  in  broken  sentences. 
"But  I  wur  so  miserable  in  the  house.  There, 
he — he  corned  along,  an'  I  liked  un  well  enough 
— an'  I  took  un.  Not  but  what  I  was  that 
afeard  o*  un,  sure,  that  at  times  I  did  a'most 
love  un.  An'  if  so  be  he  had  a-wed  wi'  me — 


Hallowmas  Eve  139 

an'  took  me  out  o'  it  all — then  I  would  ha' 
loved  un  true.  An'  I  wur  terrible  upset  the  day 
he  went.  But  there  wur  no  depth  in  it,  like. 
For  I  do  tell  'ee  true,  Jack,  all  my  heart  have 
a-bin  zet  upon  'ee,  since  the  night  o'  the  revel." 

"Let's  marry  to  once  an'  settle  all,"  he  said. 

"But  what  o'  your  mother?  You  be  boun' 
to  live  to  Winterhays." 

"Ay,  you  know,  but  once  wed,  not  a  word  to 
be  said." 

"And  do  'ee  think  Ursula  Handsford  is  the 
one  to  come  where  she  isn'  a- wanted?" 

"But  she  took  to  'ee  wonderful,  Ursie — an' 
would  do  again." 

The  widow's  words  still  rankled,  and  Ursula 
was  proud. 

"It  didn't  look  much  like  it  then,  by  what 
she  said.  An'  if  I  do  but  cast  my  eye  'pon  'ee 
in  church,  she'll  frown  so  black  as  a  thunder- 
cloud. An'  if  we  should  marry  in  such  haste, 
it'll  be  the  talk  o'  the  country." 

"But  what  o'  that?  If  we  do  meet,  they'll 
talk,  an'  there'll  be  no  living  wi'  mother  then." 

"I  tell  'ee  what.  Jack,  you  had  best  to  tell 
her  outright.  That  we've  a-caught  a  mind  to 
each  other.  That  so  'tis,  an'  we  can't  help  it, 


140  A  Tangled  Web 

like.  That  I'll  never  wed  wi'  William  now, 
not  if  I  do  die  a  maid.  For  I've  a-got  all  my 
mind  upon  'ee,  Jack,  an'  I  can't  zay  no  other- 
wise." 

"An'  if  she  won't  hear  o'  it — what  shall  us 
do?" 

"Then  we'll  act  as  do  fall  out.  For  I'll  ha' 
none  but  thee,  Jack,  come  what  may.  An',  at 
the  wo'st,  we'll  zet  up  for  ourselves  wi'  a  few 
cows  in  a  small  way.  An'  we'll  fo'ce  my  own 
bit  o'  money  out  o'  Vather  to  do  it,  whether  he 
will  or  no.  For  I  will  have  it — if  needs  be — 
so  there.  By  hook  or  by  crook !" 

As  she  spoke,  the  girl  got  up,  fully  bent  this 
time  upon  going. 

By  the  barn's  door  she  stopped  to  set  things 
straight.  But  he  put  his  arm  around  her  again, 
and  they  kissed  good-bye. 

"Come  out  to-morrow,  Ursie  dear,"  he 
whispered. 

"Come  an'  meet  me  up  in  wood." 

"I  will." 

"Zo  as  to  tell  what  your  mother  do  zay." 

He  hesitated.  He  would  rather  have  mar- 
ried without  a  word  and  made  all  sure.  But 
he  had  no  power  to  do  other  than  she  wished. 


Hallowmas  Eve  141 

'  "I  will.  Creep  in  quiet,  an',  when  you  be 
abed,  I'll  lock  all  up  an'  lef  the  key  for  'ee  to 
find  to-morrow  on  the  wall.  Then,  if  your 
father  should  hap  to  hear  a  sound,  he  can  never 
guess  'twas  you." 

So  they  parted.  She  crept  into  the  silent 
house  and  no  one  knew.  But,  as  she  stole  up- 
stairs, and  all  night  after  as  she  lay  awake, 
beneath  the  rapture  of  this  new-found  love  lay 
a  vague  dread  of  threatening  evil  yet  to  come. 


142  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  VII 
RECONCILIATION 

It  wanted  but  a  week  to  Christmas  when, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  quarrel,  the  foot  of 
Ursula  once  more  crossed  the  threshold  of 
.Winterhays. 

Rizpah  White  had  passed  through  many 
changes  of  mind  before  this  came  about.  Her 
mood  varied  as,  day  by  day,  she  looked  at  the 
matter  in  some  new  light;  but  always  her 
thoughts  were  single-hearted  and  upright,  and 
in  her  anger  was  nothing  mean. 

At  first,  she  went  beside  herself  with  wrath 
that  any  maid,  without  cause,  could  throw  over 
so  bold  a  man  as  William.  For  William  was 
good  as  gold.  Where  was  another  to  match 
him  for  the  doing  of  his  duty  ?  Going  back  to 
the  danger  and  hardship  of  the  sea  when  he 
had  given  it  up  for  good,  so  as  to  keep  the  old 
roof  over  their  heads  when  it  pleased  God  to 
cast  misfortune  upon  them.  Not  Jack,  who, 
if  he  could  work  well  enough  whilst  he  was  at 
it,  must  needs  be  running  off  to  spend  strength' 


Reconciliation  143 

and  money  wherever  there  was  revelling,  and 
fighting,  and  sports.  The  widow  washed  her 
hands  of  all.  A  pretty  maid  indeed  to  change 
her  mind  a'most  so  soon  as  the  man  was  out  of 
sight.  Rizpah  would  never  gie  consent  to  her 
so  long  as  she  lived,  whether  for  William  or 
Jack. 

But  soon  her  temper  softened  into  a  lament 
that  such  a  thing  should  come  between  her 
sons.  During  her  hours  of  solitary  work, 
when  Jack  was  a-field,  she  could  think  of 
nothing  else.  They  were  children  again  run- 
ning about  the  house,  the  little  one  always  at 
the  boy's  heel,  or  riding  pig-a-back  on  his 
shoulders.  Poor  William,  dead  and  gone,  used 
to  call  them  dinner  time  an'  twelve  o'clock, 
because  when  one  came,  the  other  was  not  far 
off.  And  in  all  Jack's  growing  up,  never  did 
they  fall  out  but  once.  When  Jack,  all  on  the 
sly,  carried  off  William's  whip,  and  thought- 
less dapped  it  down  and  then  forgot,  and  when 
he  ran  back  it  was  gone.  Then  William  in  his 
haste  hit  him  on  the  cheek — and  made  his  ear 
bleed  too.  Yet,  before  the  day  was  out,  they 
were  again  as  thick  as  thieves.  Now,  come 
what  may,  they  must  be  at  odds  all  their  lives. 


144  A  Tangled  Web 

The  widow  sighed.  Doubtless  it  was  the 
will  of  God  to  send  so  many  trials  for  some 
wise  end.  And  Jack  was  most  wonderful 
struck  over  Ursie.  He  had  only  been  into 
town  once  in  the  last  six  weeks.  At  last  the 
piety  of  Rizpah  found,  even  in  this  trouble,  the 
finger  of  Providence.  Over  her  knitting,  be- 
tween the  whiles  of  household  work,  she  saw 
it  all.  Ursula  Handsford  was  to  steady  Jack. 
She  was  to  keep  him  straight.  Rizpah's  heart 
warmed  at  the  thought.  Then,  in  her  mother's 
love  for  the  boy  last-born,  she  half  forgot 
.William.  Poor  Jack  was  so  terrible  down  in 
the  dumps.  And,  after  all,  it  was  better  for 
^Villiam,  too.  For  pity  the  man  wed  to  a 
woman  who  went  about  house  with  her 
thoughts  outside.  No  good  ever  came  o'  that. 
Never  in  this  world. 

So,  by  the  middle  of  December  she  was 
ready  to  say  that,  since  they  had  made  up  their 
minds,  however  it  might  please  God  for  things 
to  turn  out,  she  had  no  wish  to  be  ill  friends  or 
to  quarrel  wi'  the  maid — not  she. 

It  was  a  cold,  bleak  day,  when  Ursula  went 
up  the  hill.  The  north  wind  came  driving 
down  the  valley,  with  a  fine  snow  that  lay 


Reconciliation  145 

along  the  path  and  lodged  between  the  short, 
scanty  grass,  looking  more  wintry  than  when 
the  ground  is  covered  deep  in  drifts.  She  was 
uneasy.  She  had  never  spoken  to  the  widow 
since  harvest.  The  insult  did  not  rankle,  but 
Ursula  dreaded  the  meeting  more  than  she 
could  tell.  However,  she  went  on.  Jack  came 
out  to  meet  her  by  the  garden-hatch  and  they 
went  in  together. 

It  was  early  of  a  dull  December  afternoon. 
The  widow  pulled  together  the  logs,  drew  up 
a  chair,  and  bade  Ursula  sit  down.  They  were 
all  three  silent  until  presently  Rizpah  began. 

"Well,  Ursie,"  she  said,  in  the  calm  voice  of 
one  who  accepts  a  fact  and  does  not  mean  to 
murmur.  "Zo  you  lost  no  time  zo  soon  as 
William  had  a-turned  the  back  o'  un.  'Twould 
ha'  bin  better  to  ha'  bin  off  wi'  the  old  love 
afore  you  were  on  wi'  the  new — an'  more 
seemly,  too,  I'm  thinking.  But  I've  a-got  no 
more  to  zay.  'Tis  to  be  hoped  you  do  know 
your  own  mind,  now." 

If  another  had  spoken  so,  Ursula  would  have 
fired  up  at  once,  but  the  quiet  manner  of  the 
widow  stirred  no  anger  but,  rather,  begot 
respect. 


146  A  Tangled  Web 

"I  should  never  ha'  listened  to  William," 
replied  the  maid  in  self-defence,  "if  I  hadn'  a- 
bin  so  unhappy  wi'  Vather  at  home." 

"Well,  rich  or  poor,  thank  God,  we've  a-bin 
all  happy  one  wi'  another  in  this  house."  The 
widow  sighed.  For  once  the  busy  knitting 
needles  ceased  and  her  hands  rested  idly  in  her 
lap.  "But  what  may  chance  to  come,  now,  is 
more  than  I  do  dare  to  think  about." 

Ursula  had  thought  and  wondered  many  a 
day  and  many  a  night,  yet  she  found  not  a 
word  to  say. 

Presently,  the  widow  went  on. 

"If  he  did  but  know,  I  sim,  I  could  rest  more 
content.  But  there's  nowhere  to  zend  to.  An' 
if  he  should  write,  he'd  be  gone  again  afore 
anything  could  reach  un.  I  can't  abear  to 
think  o'  the  man,  fooled  with  his  own  thoughts 
o'  what  he  is  to  come  home  to.  An'  his  brother 
that  loved  un  durs'n't  walk  a  mile  or  so  to  meet 
un  if  he  should  tramp  back  to  Bratton  out  o' 
luck.  But  there,  it  mus'  all  turn  out  as  is  or- 
dained. 'Tis  poor  talking  o'  what  you  can't 
mend.  Hark!  What's  that?" 

The  gate  had  fallen  to  with  a  slam  and  there 
came  a  step  upon  the  garden  path. 


Reconciliation  1 47 

Ursula,  by  the  further  side  of  the  fire,  was 
facing  the  window;  and  as  her  eye  glanced 
aslant  across  the  garden  plot,  it  caught  sight  of 
the  passing  figure  of  a  man — a  seaman  with  a 
staff  and  a  bundle  tied  in  a  handkerchief. 

"  'Tis  William  a-come  back,"  she  gasped, 
in  a  whisper  so  low  that  she  could  scarcely  be 
heard. 

Each  one  looked  blankly  into  another's  face. 
The  moment  that  they  dreaded  had  come 
sooner  than  they  thought.  The  widow  pointed 
with  her  finger  and  nodded  to  Ursula  to  go  out 
by  the  other  way.  But  at  once  there  came  a 
sharp  rap  upon  the  door.  Then  it  could  not 
be  he.  For  why  knock  when  he  need  but  lift 
the  latch?  Unless  he  meant  for  joke  to  bring 
his  mother  out  and  take  her  by  surprise. 

Eager  to  welcome  back  her  son,  yet  trem- 
bling to  think  what  might  befall,  Rizpah  rose 
and  went  to  answer  the  knock.  The  other  two 
stood  half-way  across  the  floor  and  listened. 

"Is  this  Winterhays  Farm?"  inquired  the 
voice  of  a  stranger. 

"It  is." 

"Where  the  widow  White  do  live?" 

"Please  to  walk  in." 


148  A  Tangled  Web 

"I  brought  a  message  from  Mr.  White,  mate 
o'  the  Fortune."  The  visitor  kept  on  talking 
as  he  followed  Rizpah  into  the  kitchen.  "  '  "Pis 
but  a  few  miles  out  o'  your  way,'  says  he,  and  I 
promised  to  come.  He's  safe  an'  sound  in 
Bristol  port,  and,  though  he  can't  get  away 
for  a  day  or  two,  'I'll  eat  my  Christmas  dinner 
at  home/  says  he,  'and  a  merry  time  we'll 
have,'  says  he.  'For  the  Fortune's  as  good  as 
her  name,'  he  says,  says  he " 

The  widow  interrupted  to  beg  of  the 
stranger  to  please  to  take  a  seat.  He  stepped 
into  the  chimney  corner  and  made  himself  at 
ease;  though  he  must  be  going  on  almost  at 
once,  for  he  had  some  miles  to  travel  that 
night.  His  face  in  the  firelight  was  the  colour 
of  the  oaken  dresser.  He  wore  a  loose  jacket 
of  blue  and  a  neckercher  tied  in  a  knot.  The 
widow  without  a  word,  but  as  a  matter  of 
course,  busied  herself  to  lay  out  meat  and 
drink,  the  best  she  had,  upon  the  board.  And 
all  the  while,  taking  no  heed  that  Jack  and 
Ursula  sate  mute,  he  talked. 

"Ay,  the  little  Fortune  is  as  good  as  her 
name,"  he  cried  again,  and  slapped  his  knee. 
"Though  for  twenty  weeks  we  had  the  devil's 


Reconciliation  149 

own  luck  off  the  west  o'  Ireland — for  they'll 
beat  right  round  now,  rather  than  face  the 
Channel — yet  never  a  chase  could  we  fall  in 
with,  but  once  a  Bristol  snow,  French-built. 
And  then  a  month  or  more  between  Ushant 
and  Land's  End,  and  like  to  have  mutiny, 
along  of  a  Swedish  bark  we  stopped  and  let 
go  again.  And  then,  a-cruising  off  Cape  Finis- 
terre,  we  fell  in  wi'  a  Frenchman  o'  fifty  guns 
— and  like  enough  she  was  to  ha'  carried  us 
home,  but " 

The  widow  brought  a  cup  of  cider  and  put 
down  to  warm. 

"Then  Will — then  Mr.  White  is  sound  and 
hearty?"  she  asked,  laying  a  dignity  upon  the 
word  "Mr.,"  which,  however,  could  not  hide 
her  concern. 

"Sound  as  oak,  an'  hearty  as  ever !" 

"An'  from  what  you  do  say,  he — he  mus'  ha' 
done  well  for  hizself  this  cruise?"  she  faltered. 

"Never  better,  ma'am.  But  I'll  just  wet  my 
whistle,"  cried  the  seaman,  stooping  to  take  up 
the  cup.  "Here's  to  his  health,  an'  joy  in  the 
spending  o'  it.  Ay,  ay.  What  with  his  pay, 
an'  double  share  o'  prize  money  for  a  master's 
mate — but  I've  a-got  a  bit  of  writing  stowed 


150  A  Tangled  Web 

away  on  my  clothes.  'Just  run  alongside  an' 
drop  it  wi'  my  mother,'  says  he — 'or  my  brother, 
Jack,'  he  says,  says  he " 

He  drank  the  cup  dry  and  put  it  down.  He 
slapped  himself  all  over  till  he  heard  the  paper 
crinkle;  and  then,  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
jacket,  dragged  out  a  crumpled  letter  which  he 
held  towards  Rizpah  White. 

The  widow  laid  it  down  upon  the  bench. 
She  could  not  read  herself,  and  Jack  must  tell 
it  out  presently,  when  they  were  alone.  Be- 
sides, the  meal  was  ready. 

"  'Tis  but  bread  an'  cheese,  for  we  ha'n't  a- 
cooked,  to-day,"  she  explained,  though,  in  good 
truth,  Rizpah  had  not  cooked  for  many  a  day, 
"but  you  be  kindly  welcome,  if  you'll  please  to 
zit  down  to  what  there  is,  an'  if  you'll  bide  the 
night " 

The  stranger  could  not  hear  of  that.  He 
must  be  pushing  on,  too.  The  days  were  short, 
and  he  had  still  a  good  ten  miles  before  dark- 
night.  He  swaggered  to  the  oaken  bench,  and 
fell  to  at  once  with  a  will  and  an  appetite  fit  to 
spread  both  famine  and  drought  through  the 
four  continents.  But,  having  taken  full  sup- 
plies aboard,  he  would  not  go  back  to  the  fire. 


Reconciliation  151 

He  took  up  his  staff  and  bundle,  boisterously 
wished  them  good-bye  and  a  Merry  Christmas 
— and  a  safe  run  home  for  Mr.  White — and 
then,  amidst  the  widow's  thanks,  took  leave  and 
went  on  his  way. 

Then  Rizpah  took  up  the  letter  again.  With- 
out a  word,  Jack  and  she  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow, but  Ursie  sat  where  she  was. 

The  heavy,  leaden  clouds  had  closed  in,  and, 
under  a  threatening  storm,  the  afternoon  grew 
dark  betime.  Like  enough  there  was  going  to 
be  a  ground  of  snow. 

With  trembling  fingers,  the  widow  broke  the 
seals — two  little  pats  of  red  wax  flattened  by 
the  pressure  of  a  thumb.  Then  Jack  slowly 
spelt  out  the  letter  and  puzzled  out  the  sense. 

It  ran : 

DEAR  JACK, 

Tell  dear  Mother  that  I  am  well  as  I  hope  all  are  at 
home.  Tell  dear  Mother  I  cannot  say  the  day,  but  I 
think  to  be  at  Bratton  within  the  week,  and  she  need  not 
to  trouble,  for  we  brought  in  the  French  ship  and  all,  and 
I  shall  have  a  pretty  sum,  though  I  do  not  know  how 
much.  Tell  dear  Mother  not  to  trouble  her  head  any 
longer,  but  to  kill  a  goose  for  Christmas  and  I  will  be 
there.  And  whisper  to  Ursie  Hanclsford,  first  thing,  I 
shall  ride  to  Wells  for  a  licence,  for  none  o'  your  beating 
to  winnard  with  the  banns  for  we.  So  no  more  till  we 
do  meet. 

From  your  loving  brother, 

WILLIAM  WHITE. 


BOOK  II 


BOOK  II 

CHAPTER  I 
"THEY  Two,   THEIRZELVES" 

Ladyday  had  come  and  gone,  but  Rizpah 
White  had  not  found  the  wherewi'  to  pay  her 
rent. 

As  yet,  she  was  only  a  few  days  behind  time, 
but  what  to  do  was  more  than  she  could  tell. 
She  was  the  mistress — young  Jack  not  yet  be- 
ing of  age — and  she  had  been  sent  for  by  law- 
yer Anstey,  the  steward,  to  go  that  morning 
about  it  into  Wincanton  town.  The  meeting 
with  gentlefolks — the  confession  that  she  could 
not  pay — had  flustered  Rizpah.  Now,  at  noon, 
with  heavy  steps  and  a  sad  heart,  she  came 
trudging  home  by  the  lonely  road  along  the 
hill-top. 

Above  the  village  was  a  four-cross-way,  close 
to  a  piece  of  waste  run  wild  with  glistening 
gorse  and  brake.  As  she  reached  the  corner 


156  A  Tangled  Web 

to  turn  down  into  Bratton,  between  tall  hedge- 
rows through  the  gap  of  a  five-barred  gate,  the 
whole  valley  lay  suddenly  open  to  her  sight. 
Quickly  her  eye  glanced  from  the  grey  church, 
with  its  square  tower  in  the  grave-yard  high 
upon  the  side  of  the  ridge,  to  the  straggling 
houses  all  along  the  slope,  with  Winterhays 
standing  alone,  the  nearest  of  them  all,  amidst 
the  fields  she  had  trodden  daily  for  the  best  part 
of  her  life. 

It  was  spring,  of  a  Thursday  as  Good  Fri- 
day fell  on  the  morrow.  Bright-edged  April 
clouds,  with  patches  of  deep,  clear  blue  be- 
tween, hung  over  all.  Ploughed  ground  and 
pasture-field  alike  shone  and  glistened  sweet 
with  sun  and  shower.  The  wheat  was  grow- 
ing fresh  as  grass,  and  Jack  had  put  the  barley 
in  most  wonderful  well,  to  year.  The  pushing 
leaf  upon  the  elm  was  breaking  green,  though 
blackthorn  bushes  in  the  gully  hedgerow  still 
held  their  blossom  white  as  snow.  Down  in 
the  bottom,  close  to  three-hounds  waste,  a  thin 
blue  mist  of  smoke  curled  up  between  the  trees. 
Sure  sign  that  winter  was  behind  their  backs 
when  the  wandering  gipsies  came  about  once 
more. 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves"     157 

The  place  was  dear  to  her,  and  it  never 
looked  more  homely  than  to-day.  Since  poor 
Master  brought  her  there — scarce  out  of  her 
teens,  she  had  never  laid  head  to  pillow  under 
any  other  roof.  For  if  they  were  ten  mile 
away,  no  matter  what  the  weather,  rain  or 
shine,  starlight  or  cloudy  night,  back  they  must 
come  to  be  ready  for  the  morning  work.  And 
there  the  boys  were  born.  And  there,  in  the 
room  of  the  middle  dormer,  above  the  porch, 
the  blow  fell;  when  the  hand  of  God,  without 
sign  or  warning,  snatched  the  company  from 
her  fireside  and  the  mate  from  her  bed.  The 
lonesomeness  of  the  empty  corner  made  her 
heart  cling  to  the  old  walls.  And  in  the  church- 
yard was  the  grave  not  overgrown,  where  her 
good  man  slept,  with  no  stone  at  his  head,  as 
yet,  that  folk  might  read  the  name  and  who  he 
was.  Ay,  though  it  were  a  palace  fit  for  a 
king,  with  fields  o'  meadow-grass  knee-deep, 
and  grounds  to  yield  twelve  sacks  o'  wheat  the 
acre,  never  fail,  in  any  other  spot  on  earth  Riz- 
pah  must  live  a  stranger  all  her  days.  And 
they  would  have  to  leave.  Though  it  had  not 
been  said  for  good  and  all,  it  was  clear  as  day 
that  they  must  go. 


158  A  Tangled  Web 

All  the  road  along,  she  had  been  at  her  wits' 
end  to  think  of  some  way  to  raise  money  to  try 
her  luck  for  another  year.  To  beg  for  help 
of  great-uncle  Tutchins,  or  to  try  to  borrow  of 
cousin  Simon  Mogg.  But  it  was  of  no  use. 
To  do  either  one  or  the  other  was  but  to  lower 
her  pride  and  to  get  "No"  for  an  answer.  No 
thought  would  come  into  her  head  clear  enough 
to  take  in  common-sense  and  flatter  her  into 
hope.  Only,  since  the  last  word  had  not  been 
spoken,  her  brain  could  not  rest. 

From  the  height,  she  saw  Ursula  with  young 
Jack  behind,  come  out  of  the  house  and  into  the 
path  to  look.  Restless  to  hear  what  she  had 
to  tell,  they  were  watching  for  her  to  come 
back.  They  dared  not  go  up  so  far  as  the  road, 
she  understood,  lest  in  their  countenances  folk 
should  read  their  eagerness  and  talk.  Nothing 
could  be  kept  from  the  prying  eyes  and  busy 
tongues  of  Bratton. 

Then  the  whole  weight  of  Rizpah's  troubles 
bore  down  upon  her  at  once.  All  her  life 
through  she  had  stood  up  against  the  ills  of  to- 
day, and  faced  to-morrow  with  a  stout  courage, 
but  at  last  her  spirit  failed.  She  had  done  her 
best.  No  hands  upon  earth  could  do  more. 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves "     159 

She  had  slaved  from  morn  to  night,  pinched 
and  saved  when  nobody  saw,  and  gone  to  bed 
hungry  all  to  no  end.  The  chance  was  past. 
It  was  no  longer  any  good  to  try  to  keep  things 
together  now.  She  glanced  again  at  the  man 
and  woman  standing  just  by  the  end  of  the 
wall.  "Ah!"  she  sighed,  stretching  one  arm 
towards  them  as  she  spoke,  "  'Tis  you  two  have 
a-brought  it  about.  'Tis  you  two—"  But 
tears  rushed  into  her  eyes,  blurred  her  sight, 
and  choked  the  words. 

In  the  middle  of  a  corner  of  waste  made  by 
the  cross-roads  was  a  small  knoll,  and,  at  one 
side,  a  copse  with  thick  undergrowth  and  a  few 
tall  trees.  She  could  not  go  home  yet.  To 
talk  to  gentry,  she  had  put  on  the  mourning, 
heavy  and  stiff,  that  she  wore  on  Sundays,  and 
she  was  all  of  a  sweat  with  this  warm  day  of 
early  spring.  She  went  and  sat  down,  out  of 
the  way  upon  the  bank,  to  rest.  To  see  Jack 
and  Ursula  brought  back  to  her  mind  the  story 
of  the  last  few  months,  with  all  its  vivid  hope 
and  dark  disappointment. 

This  was  how  it  had  fallen  out. 

Within  a  day  after  the  visit  of  the  sea- 
man, the  news  of  William's  good  fortune  and 


160  A  Tangled  Web 

looked- for  return  went  buzzing  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  ran  like  wildfire  through  all  the 
villages  around  Bratton.  Quite  a  sight  o'  folk 
trooped  to  and  fro  along  the  path  to  Winter- 
hays  ;  and  the  widow  could  not  stir  out,  so  much 
as  a  foot,  without  being  met  and  stopped  by 
friends  and  neighbours  burning  "to  hear  the 
rights  o'  it  all."  And  everybody  was  really 
and  truly  glad.  For  Rizpah  was  well-liked,  as 
right-hearted  people  always  are  and  will  be. 
Now  that  she  was  in  luck,  the  whole  parish 
rang  with  her  praises,  and  tongues  chimed  in, 
one  with  another,  like  a  peal  o'  bells.  For  the 
Whites  were  as  good  a  sort  as  ever  trod  shoe- 
leather — zo  they  were — always  ready  to  lend  a 
thing  when  they  had  it,  and  do  a  good  turn 
when  they  could,  like;  and  never  waiting  to 
snap  a  body  off  short  who  had  any  little  favour 
to  ask,  like  some  do,  that  could  be  mentioned — 
zo  they  do.  For  if  they  must  say  "No" — as 
everybody  must  now  and  again  when  it  isn't 
convenient — zo  they  mus',  in  course  they  mus' 
— or,  if  they  ha'n't  a-got  it,  mayhap,  why  then, 
wi'  a  White,  one  and  all,  the  answer  do  pop  out 
smiling,  and  tell  the  reason  why — zo  't  do.  An' 
never  glad  wi'  another's  harm,  no,  nor  jalous 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves "     161 

o'  good.  An'  if  the  widow  did  speak  out 
straight  when  she  wasn't  best  pleased,  why,  all 
that  the  better  to  be  sure,  than  'tis  to  be  so 
under-creeping,  like  some  be — zo  they  be — to 
tell  behind  the  back  o'  'ee  what  they  ha'n't  a-got 
spirit  to  speak  to  your  face — no  more  they 
ha'n't.  Ah !  for  then  you  can  tell  where  you  be 
— zo  you  can.  An'  once  said  is  a-had  out  an' 
done  wi' — zo  'tis.  Though  there  be  many 
about  do  hide  away  a  thing,  and  hold  it  in  mind 
for  years,  till  they  can  see  what  they  can  do — 
zo  they  do. 

And  all  this  praise,  though  a  little  breathless, 
was  sweet  to  Rizpah;  for,  look  at  it  how  she 
would,  it  was  sincere,  and  the  goodwill,  frank 
and  clear  as  summer  sunshine,  so  that  her  pride 
in  herself  sprang  up  and  grew  afresh  in  the 
warmth  of  it. 

And  amongst  her  relatives,  the  rumour  of 
this  piece  of  good  fortune  swept  away  every 
little  difference  and  healed  every  wound. 

To  tell  the  truth,  great-uncle  Tutchins  had 
not  been  to  Winterhays  since  harvest.  He  was 
a  bit  upset.  Yes,  he  was.  And  nothing  but 
natural  so  to  be.  He  made  no  pretence  to  hide 
his  displeasure,  for,  as  he  said,  after  he  had 


1 62  A  Tangled  Web 

a-sweat  like  a  bull  all  day,  a-carr'ing  wheat, 
and  then  zot  down  an'  ate  his  supper,  and  took 
his  glass,  without  so  much  as  a  single  thought 
in  the  head  of  him,  to  find  Rizpah  White  jump 
up  and  come  at  him  like  a  roaring  lion  was 
enough  to  stir  the  bile  of  any  man.  And  there 
was  no  call  for  it,  neither.  Though,  to  be  sure, 
Rizpah  did  not  know  then  what  has  since 
turned  out  wi'  young  Jack  and  Ursula;  and 
that,  now  that  the  Whites  looked  to  be  better 
off,  he  began  to  see  might  make  a  difference. 

So  was  Malachi  Webb  most  terr'ble  out  of 
temper,  too ;  though  nobody  thought  that  mat- 
tered but  Malachi  himself.  He  seized  every 
opportunity  of  pointing  out  that  it  wasn't  to 
say  that  the  widow  had  been  doing  so  wonder- 
ful well,  either,  that  she  should  stand  up  and 
spit  fire  at  one  no  worse  off  than  herself. 

Cousin  Simon  Mogg  had  never  so  much  as 
put  a  foot  near  the  place  since  Bratton  revel. 
He  liked  Rizpah,  so  he  said,  well  enough  to  bide 
away.  Look  at  it  how  you  might,  he  said,  the 
Whites  were  not  wise;  and  cousin  Simon 
Mogg,  though  he  said  it  himself,  had  never 
been  the  man  to  take  advantage.  Folk  that 
were  well-to-do  had  no  right  to  help  eat  their 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves"     163 

own  kin  out  o'  house  and  home.  Besides,  as 
he  owned  in  a  whisper  to  great-uncle  Tutchins, 
Rizpah,  much  as  he  respected  her  in  many 
ways,  might  hap,  one  of  these  fine  days,  to  run 
short  and  look  around  for  a  few  pounds. 
Then,  if  a  man  have  a-bin  in  an'  out  the  house 
morning,  noon  and  night,  all  times  and  all  sea- 
sons, eating  and  drinking,  making  free  with 
whatever  there  was,  why,  all  that  the  harder 
to  say  "No."  Though  he  liked  Rizpah,  mind 
that.  An',  mayhap,  if  he  were  most  wonderful 
friendly,  might  chance  to  give  away.  And  to 
be  fair,  whatever  might  come,  it  was  none  of 
her  own  fault,  and  he  should  always  like  her, 
hap  what  may.  So,  in  the  staying  away  of 
cousin  Simon  Mogg  there  was  no  ill-will,  but, 
on  the  one  hand,  real  goodness  of  heart,  and 
on  the  other,  a  prudent  desire  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  temptation.  Great-uncle  Tutchins  saw 
this  clearly,  and  told  cousin  Simon  Mogg  he 
was  quite  right. 

But  when  it  became  known  that  William  had 
done  well  and  was  to  be  home  for  Christmas 
Day,  they  all  trooped  in,  one  at  a  time  or  two 
together,  to  shake  the  widow  by  the  hand  and 
show  how  glad  they  were.  The  kitchen  was 


164  A  Tangled  Web 

full  of  visitors  all  the  week  through.  And  the 
questions  they  asked  were  more  than  Rizpah 
could  well  answer.  How  much  had  William 
made?  What  would  his  two  shares  amount 
to?  There  was  nothing  to  go  by  but  this — 
William  was  not  the  man  to  talk  o'  more  than 
he  had  done.  Stories  of  untold  gold  won  upon 
the  high  seas  dazzled  the  fancy  of  Rizpah,  so 
that,  for  a  day  or  two,  she  dreamed  that  all  her 
cares  were  over,  but  for  the  one  trouble  of  this 
love  affair  of  Ursula.  Her  load  was  so  greatly 
lightened  that,  at  times  for  hours  together,  she 
forgot  even  that.  Her  mind  was  made  up 
what  to  do,  and  that  in  itself  brings  quiet. 
Ursie,  at  first,  must  keep  out  of  the  way.  Jack 
need  say  nothing.  And  then  at  night  she 
would  sit  with  William  by  the  fire  alone,  and 
talk,  and,  watching  all  the  while,  catch  the  right 
moment  to  speak  out  the  truth. 

So  Rizpah  killed  and  picked  the  fattest  goose 
she  had,  and  set  it  ready  for  roasting,  Christ- 
mas morning.  The  holly  was  thick  and  glisten- 
ing red  in  berry  that  year,  and  she  trimmed  up 
the  kitchen  as  never  was,  chimney,  window, 
wall,  and  beam.  It  shone  a  welcome  not  only 
to  the  day  but  ready  for  the  traveller,  by  this 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves"     165 

time  started  on  his  homeward  road.  And  as 
she  stood  to  tend  the  spit,  anxious  and  trem- 
bling between  mother's  love  and  fears,  she 
thought  out  what  was  just.  If  William's 
money  won  back  his  father's  land,  then,  of 
good  right,  he  must  live  with  her  at  home. 
And  Jack  could  marry  Ursie  and  go  into  some 
farm,  away  out  of  sight,  so  as  not  to  be  an  eye- 
sore day  by  day.  Mayhap,  in  God's  will,  as 
time  went  on,  William  would  choose  another 
wife  and  marry,  too;  and,  so,  ill-will  wear  out 
and  all  be  one  again. 

As  the  morning  passed,  every  whip's  while 
she  ran  out  to  the  garden  gate  to  look  along  the 
path.  For  certain,  he  would  come  by  coach  to 
one  of  the  towns  near  by  and  walk  across.  But 
travelling  was  like  to  be  late,  Christmas  time 
and  all.  Yet  William  knew  what  he  was  say- 
ing when  he  wrote  he  would  be  there.  Rizpah 
put  back  the  cooking  to  make  the  dinner  late. 

But  noon  slid  past,  yet  William  did  not  come. 

For  certain,  if  it  were  by  way  of  Wincanton 
he  was  travelling,  by  this  time  the  coach  must 
have  gone  by. 

In  the  afternoon,  great-uncle  Tutchins,  and 
Malachi,  and  ever  so  many  more  looked  in. 


1 66  A  Tangled  Web 

What,  not  come  ?  Oh  well,  sure  as  the  light  he 
would  walk  in  afore  night.  They  sat  down 
just  to  wait,  and  made  themselves  very  merry, 
as  at  that  season  everybody  should. 

"You  zee,"  reasoned  the  widow,  sadly,  but 
still  with  pride;  "a  man  in  authority  is  never 
free.  He  mus'  carr'  it  all  in  the  head  o'  un,  for 
if  any  little  thing  mid  turn  out  wrong  or  go 
awry,  the  blame  do  fall  'pon  his  shoulders.  So 
his  duty  do  never  cease,  when  a  common  man 
mid  do  as  he  will.  What  wonder,  then,  if  Wil- 
liam should  be  a  little  late?" 

To  this  they  all  agreed,  and  fell  a-talking  of 
the  great  advantages  of  humble  station.  Great- 
uncle  Tutchins  declared  that  he  had  "a-zaid  it 
afore,  and  'ud  say  it  again,  that  a  steady,  care- 
ful, labouring  man,  wi'  nothing,  is  better  off  in 
real  truth  than  one  that  have  a-got  so  much. 
For  he've  a-got  no  cares  an'  nothing  to  lose. 
But  property  is  a  real  tyrant,  look  at  it  how  you 
will."  He  took  a  deep  drink  of  hot  gin  and 
cider,  wagged  his  head  wisely,  and  glanced 
around  for  support.  Malachi  and  the  rest  of 
them  seemed  to  have  their  doubts,  until  cousin 
Simon  Mogg,  one  of  the  best  off  and  the  most 
far-seeing  men  within  ten  miles  of  Bratton, 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves"     167 

mild  as  he  looked,  spoke  up.  "It  mid  be  hard 
for  some  to  zee  it,"  he  said,  speaking  as  one 
who  had  suffered  the  hardships  of  wealth,  "but 
that's  no  more  than  the  truth." 

But  evening  drew  on,  and  then  dark-night 
and  candles,  yet  William  did  not  come. 

With  a  sigh,  the  widow  put  out  the  goose 
cold  for  supper,  and  the  visitors  grew  very 
jolly  and  stayed  quite  late,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing all  the  more  to  keep  Rizpah  up  in  heart,  so 
they  said.  For  she  showed  a  little  downcast, 
to  be  sure  she  did.  Anybody  can  understand 
that  who  knows  a  mother's  heart.  But  there, 
after  all,  he  was  sure  to  come  to-morrow,  or 
leastways,  as  quick  as  he  could. 

To-morrow  came  and  went.  Then,  day 
after  day  and  week  after  week  had  slowly 
slipped  away  until  now,  the  beginning  of  April, 
but  brought  neither  sound  nor  sign  to  tell 
whether  William  were  alive  or  dead. 

At  first,  folk  thought  little  of  this  delay. 
For,  after  all,  it  is  the  commonest  thing  in  life 
for  a  man  not  to  do  the  thing  he  means  upon 
the  day  he  mentioned;  and  wondering  a  little 
longer  only  whetted  the  appetite  of  Bratton  to 
look  for  more,  when  William  should  come. 


1 68  A  Tangled  Web 

But  soon  the  Moggs,  the  Puckeridges,  great- 
uncle  Tutchins,  and  Malachi  Webb  began  to 
smile.  "Ah !  set  a  sailor  ashore  wi'  money  in 
his  pocket,  and  you'll  soon  find  a  man  without 
a  coat  to  his  back."  "Ay,  an'  quick-come-by 
is  a  different  colour  to  hold-vast."  Malachi 
Webb,  for  one,  threw  out  a  doubt  whether  Wil- 
liam could  ever  ha'  won  one  quarter  so  much 
as  the  widow  had  a-gied  out.  So,  in  the  end, 
interest  flagged  and  fell.  For  weeks,  the  name 
of  William  White  had  not  crossed  anybody's 
lips,  except,  it  may  be,  now  and  again  in  gossip 
over  a  friendly  glass  and  coupled  with  a  joke. 

Rizpah  alone  felt  quite  certain  of  what  had 
happened. 

But  what  is  done  is  done,  and  it  is  no  good  to 
talk.  So  she  had  hidden  away  her  thoughts, 
and  brooded  over  them,  but,  up  to  now,  no 
word  of  complaint  had  crossed  her  lips  to  any 
Christian  soul.  "Yes,"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self, as  the  loss  of  William  came  back  into  her 
mind.  "  'Tis  they  two,  theirzelves,  that  have 
brought  it  about." 

She  waited  only  long  enough  to  dry  her 
tears  and  hide  the  traces  of  her  agitation.  Her 
emotion  was  too  deep,  and  she  too  familiar 


"They  Two,  Theirzelves "        169 

with  her  sorrow,  to  give  way  to  long  weeping 
or  useless  lament.  Besides,  there  was  no  time 
to  waste.  The  day  was  passing  away;  the 
morning  gone  and  nothing  done.  She  must 
hurry  home,  change  her  gown,  and  get  to 
work. 

She  got  up  and  walked  quickly  homewards 
down  the  hill.  Jack  and  Ursula  had  gone  in- 
doors again,  but,  as  she  entered  the  garden, 
they  came  running  in  haste  out  of  the  porch. 
Near  the  gate  stood  the  butt  of  a  hollow  tree, 
filled  with  earth  and  the  dry  sticks  of  last  year's 
flowers,  and  upon  the  edge  of  this  Rizpah  sat 
down  again. 

"What  had  he  to  zay,  mother?  What  could 
'ee  come  to?"  cried  young  Jack,  as  fast  as 
words  could  follow  one  another. 

Ursula  looked  at  the  widow's  face  and  was 
silent. 

"He  didn'  zay  so  very  much,"  began  Rizpah, 
slowly,  and  pausing  to  think  between  each  sen- 
tence, as  if  trying  to  call  back  the  lawyer's  very 
words.  "He  was  wonderful  kind,  in  a  way, 
like,  about  the  rent.  He  zaid,  after  knowing 
the  Whites  so  many  years,  he  knew  that  he  was 
safe.  He  zaid,  there  was  a  plenty  here  to  cover 

12 


170  A  Tangled  Web 

all,  an'  he  zaid,  he'd  so  soon  trust  me  as  any  in 
the  world " 

"Then  he'll  let  it  bide  a  bit,"  put  in  Jack, 
brightening  at  the  thought. 

But,  giving  no  heed  to  the  question,  the 
widow  went  on: 

"If  I  had  a-bin  the  first  in  the  land,  he 
couldn'  a-spoke  more  fair.  He  zaid,  his  mean- 
ing in  sending  were  to  learn  out  what  I  do 
think  my  own  zelf.  He  zaid,  he  had  a-heard  a 
sound  that  there  wasn't  enough  stock  on  the 
farm.  An'  did  I  think  we  could  ever  hope  to 
keep  it  on  ?  He  zaid,  there  was  another  willing 
to  take  the  place  at  a  high  price " 

A  feeling  of  mingled  anger  and  shame  came 
over  Ursula,  and  her  mouth  grew  hard.  She 
could  not  bear  to  look  the  widow  in  the  face. 
She  turned  away,  picked  a  shining  leaf  from 
the  laurel  hedge,  and  tore  it  into  shreds. 

"An'  then  he  zaid,  'twere  better  by  far  to  lef 
betime,  than  when  we  had  a-lost  all.  An',  after 
all,  't'ud  be  to  our  own  good  to  go;  vor  he'd 
find  a  littler  farm  to  match  our  means,  an'  take 
care  we  suffered  no  hurt  going  out  or  in.  An' 
then  he  zaid " 

But  Rizpah  suddenly  broke  off  and  could  tell 


"They  Two,  Thqirzelves "     171 

no  more.  She  lifted  her  hands  in  utter  hope- 
lessness and,  raising  her  voice,  she  cried : 

"There! — there!  It  was  all  such  sense — 
such  sense.  For  if  he  had  a-found  fau't,  I 
could  have  a-bore  wi'  it.  But  when  he  were 
so  kind,  my  tongue  could  shape  never  a  word 
to  zay.  An'  then  he  zaid,  quite  quiet  like, 
'think  it  over  a  week,  Mrs.  White,  what's  best 
for  yourzelf,  an'  come  wi'  an  answer  then.' ' 

"We  had  better  to  zell " 

She  cut  Jack  short. 

"I  tell  'ee  there's  nothing  but  a  miracle  can 
save  us,  now !"  she  cried,  angrily,  rising  to  her 
feet  to  go  indoors,  for  the  silliness  of  what  he 
was  about  to  say  was  more  than  she  could  be 
still  to  hear. 

She  took  a  few  hasty  steps  upon  the  path, 
but,  by  the  porch,  she  turned  about  and  her 
voice  rang  sharp  and  clear. 

"There  was  never  but  one  chance  in  this 
world,"  she  cried,  with  a  look  full  of  reproach. 
"An'  that  you  cast  away  from  me.  For  the 
Almighty  blessed  William — zo  he  did — an' 
gied  'un  luck;  an'  'twere  you  yourzelf,  Urs'la 
Handsford,  that  drove  'un  away  from  the 
home  he  thought  to  ha'  come  back  to.  Ah !  he 


172  A  Tangled  Web 

would  ha'  corned  if  he  hadn'  a-heard.  Mayhap 
he  did  come,  for  all  we  do  know — an'  learnt — 
an'  went  in  shame  or  anger,  so  silent  as  he 
corned.  For  he  had  a  steadfastness  o'  heart, 
had  William,  that  narn  o'  'ee  have  a-got,  nor 
never  will.  An'  he  do  believe  that  his  own 
mother  allowed  it  all  an'  held  against  un.  For 
he'd  never  a-lef  me,  else.  An'  zay  what  you 
will,  or  do  what  you  mid,  'tis  you  two  that  have 
a-brought  it  about — to  drive  away  my  son — to 
turn  me  out  o'  house  an'  home — an'  bring  me 
to  the  grave  in  want  when  I  mid  ha'  lived  in 
plenty." 

She  had  said  her  say.  She  stopped  abruptly 
and  went  indoors. 

Ursula,  quivering  in  every  nerve,  turned 
round  to  Jack. 

"Go  up  an'  put  in  the  banns,  to-day,"  she 
said,  shortly.  "An'  wait,  to-night,  till  every- 
body is  abed  an'  soun'  asleep.  Then  come 
down — quiet,  mind — to  milkhouse  door.  An' 
bide,  Jack,  till  I  do  let  'ee  in.  For  I've  a-got  a 
need  o'  'ee  for  what  I  mean  to  do." 

Then,  without  waiting  for  so  much  as  an 
"Ay"  or  "Nay,"  she  strode  out  of  the  gate, 
leaving  Jack  to  watch  her  pass  out  of  sight. 


Four-Pennyworth  of  Fortune   173 


CHAPTER  II 
FOUR-PENNYWORTH  OF  FORTUNE 

The  footpath  leading  across  the  fields  and 
passing  close  behind  Jacob  Handsford's  barn 
was  more  lonely  than  the  village  street.  To 
avoid  meeting  anybody,  and  the  better  to  get 
indoors  unseen,  Ursula  had  taken  that  way 
home. 

Warm  at  heart  and  impulsive  by  nature,  she 
had  no  power  to  conceal  her  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, or  to  bide  her  time.  If  she  were  angry, 
she  must  show  it ;  when  her  blood  was  up,  she 
must  speak  out.  And  yet,  brought  up  by  her 
father  and  hourly  alert  to  his  secret  ways,  she 
had  gained  an  insight  into  the  hidden  workings 
of  the  meaner  side  of  human  nature  which  the 
single-minded  Rizpah  did  not  possess.  Well 
enough  she  knew  who  had  hinted  that  Winter- 
hays  was  understocked.  The  friendliness  of 
the  lawyer  Anstey,  which  the  widow  took  for 
kindly  respect,  and  young  Jack  seemed  to  think 
made  all  things  easy,  did  not  deceive  Ursula. 


174  A  Tangled  Web 

Why,  the  very  phrases  smacked  of  her  father's 
words.     She  could  hear  his  little  dry  chuckle 
as  he  whispered,  for  the  widow's  own  good, 
mind,  that  'twere  better  to  leave  in  time  than 
to  lose  all.     And  the  reason  was  as  plain  as 
noonday.    By  fair  words,  of  her  own  will,  they 
must  get  the  widow  to  go  out.    For  the  name 
of  Jacob  Handsford  was  a  bye-word  already. 
And  to  go  behind  a  bargain,  or,  by  under- 
creeping,  to  worm  and  hook  another  out  of 
home,  was  a  crime  in  the  eyes  of  all  honest 
folk  to  follow  a  man  to  the  end  of  his  days, 
and  be  remembered  and  talked  about  when  his 
bones  lay  bare  and  dry  under  the  sod.    Even 
he,  who  stuck  at  nothing  when  a  penny  was  to 
be  got,  hesitated  to  face  that,  if  by  other  means 
he  could  gain  his  own  ends.    But  little  did  he 
guess  that  they  knew  he  had  made  an  offer  for 
the  land.     She  took  a  spiteful  delight  in  pic- 
turing how  he  would  fume  and  scold  when  he 
presently  found  her  speaking  straight  out,  and 
determined  to  claim  her  rights.     For  the  time 
was  come  to  have  her  money,  and  have  it  she 
would,  ay,  and  use  it,  too,  to  stop  him  in  what 
he  meant  to  do. 

And  underneath  all  her  anger  and  excite- 


Four-Pennyworth  of  Fortune   175 

ment  was  a  constant  gnawing  of  remorse. 
,What  the  widow  said  was  true.  Ursula  had 
thought  of  that  herself.  William  had  heard, 
and  therefore  would  never  again  come  back  to 
Bratton.  Even  when  she  went  in  fear  of  his 
return,  and  the  troubles  it  might  bring,  she 
saw,  clearly  enough,  that  his  absence  must 
mean  the  ruin  of  the  Whites.  To  think  of  it 
made  her  sick  at  heart.  It  was  she  who  was 
turning  them  out  of  Winterhays. 

Oh,  well!  Wait  until  evening,  she  said  to 
herself,  when  her  father  came  in  to  his  supper, 
with  nobody  else  about,  then  let  them  see  what 
was  to  be  done. 

The  moment  came  sooner  than  Ursula  ex- 
pected. 

She  had  passed  the  barn  and  reached  the 
barton  gate,  through  which  she  used  to  drive 
in  the  cows,  when  a  sudden  outburst  of  voices 
fell  on  her  ear.  It  came  from  the  paved  court- 
yard before  the  milk-house  door.  At  first,  she 
was  too  far  off  to  catch  the  drift  of  it ;  but,  sure 
enough,  her  father  was  dealing  out  shrill  ac- 
cusations and  threats.  She  could  also  hear  the 
terrified  denials,  the  crying  and  frightened  sobs 
of  little  Hannah  Peach. 


176  A  Tangled  Web 

"You've  a-stole  it." 

"I  ha'n't,  maister,  I  ha'n't— I  tell  'ee  I 
ha'n't" 

"You've  a-stole  the  money,  you  little  work- 
house thief.  I'll  zend  for  the  constable.  I'll 
bring  'ee  to  the  gallis,  I  will.  An'  you,  too, 
you  fortune-telling,  thieving,  runabout  rogue. 
I'll  have  'ee  brought  afore  a  justice,  I  will. 
You  shall  go  to  jail,  you  shall.  I'll  have  'ee 
flogged  to  the  cart's  tail " 

Eager  to  learn  what  all  this  hullibaloo  might 
mean,  Ursula  ran  across  the  barton  and  into 
the  yard. 

By  the  pump,  a  tall,  black-haired  gipsy 
woman  was  standing,  a  wicker  basket  of  wares 
hanging  by  a  strap  from  her  shoulder.  At  the 
doorway  was  Hannah,  bewailing  and  wringing 
her  hands.  Between  them  stood  Jacob  Hands- 
ford,  in  shirt-sleeves,  pick  in  hand,  just  as  he 
had  popped  in  from  the  stalls. 

"I  zaw  money  pass,  I  did.  Silver  money  I 
zaw  pass.  Ha!  ha!  You  little  thought  of 
anybeddy  a-watching  t'other  side  o'  wall.  But 
I  eyed  'ee  in.  An'  saw  the  maid  run  indoors 
— an'  come  out  again — an'  cross  her  han'  wi' 
a  silver  piece.  I  saw  the  glitter  o'  it,  I  did.  Gie 


Four-Pennyworth  of  Fortune   177 

it  here,  I  tell  'ee,  or  't'ull  be  the  wo'se  for  'ee. 
She  stole  it.  Gie  it  here!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  stretched  out  his  arm  to- 
wards the  gipsy.  Scared  at  his  threats  and 
overawed  at  the  mere  mention  of  a  justice,  the 
woman  stepped  forward,  and  dropped  into  his 
hollow  palm  Hannah's  lucky  fourpenny-bit. 
Ursula  understood  at  once.  The  little  work- 
house maid,  longing  to  know  what  her  poor 
life  might  have  in  store,  had  given  the  only 
money  she  ever  owned  to  learn  her  lot. 

At  sight  of  the  coin,  Jacob  Handsford  was 
beside  himself. 

"Run  up  for  the  tything-man !"  he  threat- 
ened at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "I  won't  have  no 
thieves  about  house.  I'll  send  her  back  to  the 
workhouse.  He!  he!  'Tis  you,  Ursie,  she've 
a-robbed,  for  I  were  never  one  to  lef  money 
about.  She'll  come  to  the  gallis,  I  know  she 
will.  Ho !  ho !  We  shall  live  to  see  the  huzzy 
ride  on  a  hurdle." 

The  gipsy-woman  had  already  made  the  best 
of  her  way  off.  Upon  seeing  Ursula,  Hannah, 
still  weeping  bitterly,  gave  over  her  frightened 
declarations  of  innocence  and  became  mute. 

"No,  we  sha'nt,"  contradicted  Ursula,  flatly. 


178  A  Tangled  We> 

"  'Tis  her  own  money.  I  gied  it  to  her,  my- 
zelf,  for  a  honester  girl  to  work  there  can't  be. 
'Tis  her  own  to  do  as  she  will  wi',  so  there." 

Jacob  quietly  slipped  the  groat  into  his 
breeches  pocket. 

"Ho !  ho !  So  that's  how  you  do  waste  what 
I  do  work  so  hard  to  get,  is  it?  That's  how 
you  do  rob  your  vather  o'  what's  only  a-gied 
'ee  for  a  purpose.  Oh  well!  forewarned — 
forearmed;  once  bit — twice  shy.  I've  a-gied 
'ee  too  much,  I  have,  by  far.  I've  a-bin  a  fool 
to  be  so  bountiful.  You've  so  good  as  stole  it 
yourzelf — you  have.  'Tis  'bezzlement  in  law. 
That's  what  'tis.  But  I  shall  mind  it.  He! 
he !  I  shall  tell  'ee  o'  it  when  next  you  do  come 
a- wanting  an'  a-begging." 

He  had  been  strangely  shy  of  quarrelling 
with  her  of  late,  and,  as  he  finished  speaking, 
he  turned  his  back  as  if  to  shuffle  away  about 
his  business. 

But  the  blood  of  Ursula  was  up.  All  that 
she  had  in  mind  to  say  to  him  at  evening  came 
out  there  and  then  upon  the  spot. 

"An'  that'll  be  next-never-come-day,  if  you 
do  wait  to  then.  I  shall  never  ax  'ee  for  no 
more,  except  what's  mine  by  good  right  and 


Four- Penny  worth  of  Fortune   179 

law.  So  I  mid  so  well  tell  'ee,  and  gie  notice 
at  once.  I  do  mean  to  wed  wi'  the  young  Jack 
White.  I  have  a-told  un  a' ready  he  mid  put  in 
the  banns.  So  all  you  have  a-got  to  do  is  to 
han'  me  over  what's  my  own,  for  that's  all  I 
do  ax  o'  'ee." 

Startled  at  such  sudden  and  unlooked-for 
news,  he  turned  round  in  a  passion,  clutching 
his  upraised  pick  as  if  he  would  strike.  But 
the  girl  only  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and 
that  cowed  him. 

"I  won't  gie  it  to  'ee,"  he  said,  sullenly. 
"You  don't  know  your  own  mind.  This  time 
last  year,  'twere  William,  an',  now,  'tis  John. 
I  don't  consent  to  the  marriage,  and  I  won't  gie 
it  up." 

"Then  there  is  they  that  can  make  'ee,  quick 
enough.  Ay,  an'  wi'  all  the  use-money,  since 
the  day  you  took  it  in  han' " 

"They  can't.  They  can't,"  cried  Jacob, 
louder  than  before.  But  the  misgiving  under- 
neath his  bluster  was  plain  to  see. 

"They  both  can  an'  will,"  the  girl  went  on, 
raising  her  voice,  and  speaking  very  fast.  "An' 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning,  so  soon  as  the 
milking  is  a-done,  I'll  walk  into  Wincanton 


180  A  Tangled  Web 

town  my  very  zelf ,  and  see  the  lawyer  Anstey ; 
and  hire  up  to  look  at  girt-uncle  Jeremy's  will ; 
an'  find  out  what  'tis ;  an'  get  my  rights  for  me ; 
an'  then  he  can  take  zo  much  as  is  wanted  to 
pay  off  the  rent  on  Winterhays,  an'  the  rest'll 
go  to  stock  it  better,  as  there's  some  about  do 
think  'tis  understocked.  We  shall  get  on  well 
enough  an'  ask  nothing  o'  nobody.  An'  you'll 
be  able  to  get  somebody  to  manage  for  'ee, 
more  to  your  own  liking." 

This  volley  of  threats  took  Jacob  so  much 
by  surprise  that  for  the  moment  he  was  dumb- 
founded. That  Ursula  would  act  as  well  as 
talk,  he  did  not  doubt.  If  she  were  to  go  to  the 
lawyer  Anstey  and  say  as  much  as  that,  there 
was  an  end  to  all  his  schemes.  With  the  help 
of  Ursula,  the  Whites  could  stay  on  well 
enough.  It  was  one  thing  to  jog  along  and 
make  a  living  with  the  land  their  own,  as  they 
did  when  old  William  White  was  alive,  but 
quite  another  to  pay  rent.  Yet,  with  more 
means,  they  could  do  it,  ay,  and  save  a  little 
year  by  year.  His  shrewd,  money-loving  mind 
grasped  all  this  in  an  instant.  But  it  took 
longer  to  frame  a  wise  reply.  He  fidgetted 
with  his  feet.  His  eyes  glanced  restlessly  from 


Four-Pennyworth  of  Fortune   181 

house  to  wall  and  back  again.  Then,  at  last, 
he  found  his  tongue. 

"Pack  o'  nonsense,"  he  cried,  his  piping  little 
voice  cracking  with  excitement;  "you  don't 
know  what  you  do  zay.  He !  he !  There,  I've 
a-got  no  time  to  listen  to  such  stuff."  And, 
with  a  forced,  uneasy  laugh,  he  turned  to  go 
his  way. 

"Then  I'll  change  my  frock  an'  go  in  to 
once,"  the  girl  called  after  him. 

He  stopped,  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of 
the  little  wooden  gate  that  opened  into  the 
yard. 

"You  can't  do  that,"  he  shouted.  "You  do 
want  to  move  too  fast  by  half.  Ho!  ho!  I 
don't  deny  'ee  your  money.  I  never  ha'n't  zaid 
no  such  word.  But  you  can't  call  in  money 
like  you  can  whistle  to  the  dog.  You've  a-got 
to  take  your  time.  There's  notice  to  be  a- 
sar'ed,  an'  the  time  mus'  run.  He!  he!  You 
do  think  to  ask  at  noon,  an'  go  to  law  afore 
night.  Why,  the  lawyer  Anstey  'ud  laugh  in 
the  face  o'  'ee.  Ay,  an'  chuckle  behind  your 
back,  too,  the  while  he  did  use  up  half  your 
money  in  law  about  nothing.  But  you  can't 
go  to  law  if  I  don't  deny  'ee.  An'  I  tell  'ee 


1 82  A  Tangled  Web 

straight  out,  you  shall  have  your  money.  Some 
time  after  Midsummer  you  shall  have  it.  But 
tidden  what  you  do  think.  I  don't  gie  my  con- 
sent, an'  so  I  shall  charge  'ee  for  time  and 
trouble.  Ah;  an'  then  there's  drawbacks  too. 
There's  kip  and  clothes.  Ho!  ho!  Tidden 
what  you  think.  But  you  shall  have  your 
money,  never  fear.  All  that  you  have  a-got 
left  o'  it.  I  have  a-told  'ee  so — mind  that.  So 
soon  after  Midsummer  as  I  can  find  time  to 
reckon  up  the  accounts." 

He  gave  her  no  chance  to  make  reply,  but 
hurried  away  as  fast  as  he  could.  And  all  the 
afternoon  he  worked  close  about  the  house  so 
that  he  might  see  if  Ursula  started  for  Win- 
canton  town. 

He  had  got  the  better  of  her — the  girl  knew 
that. 

She  should  be  but  a  fool  to  go  to  a  lawyer 
when  he  could  answer  that  he  was  ready  to 
pay.  Yet,  clearly  enough,  she  saw  this  was 
only  a  put-off,  and,  at  Midsummer,  he  would 
find  some  other  excuse.  Then  the  miserable 
meanness  of  charging  her  for  living  at  home — 
for  that  was  what  his  words  meant — when  she 
had  managed  everything  and  worked  for  him 


Four-Pennyworth  of  Fortune   183 

like  a  slave,  flashed  across  her  mind.  He  might 
take  it  out  and  welcome,  for  all  she  cared,  so 
long  as  she  might  have  the  rest  at  once  to  get 
out  of  the  house  and  away  from  him  for  good. 
She  wished  that  somebody  would  come  and 
rob  him  of  every  farthing  and  do  him  out  of 
every  acre  that  he  had.  She  ran  into  house 
and  gave  Hannah  Peach  a  whole  shilling  out 
of  downright  anger  and  ill-will. 

"There!  An'  I  wish  'twur  a  crown,"  she 
cried.  "An'  I  hope  we  mid  both  live  to  see  un 
lost  his  every  varden  an'  beg  by  the  roadside," 
she  cried. 

The  little  workhouse  maid,  frightened  half 
out  of  her  wits  at  the  word  gallows,  had  been 
weeping  her  eyes  out  ever  since. 

Now  she  stared  in  wonder  at  Miss  Urs'la 
and  dried  her  tears. 


184  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  III 

URSULA'S  SCHEME 

For  more  than  an  hour  after  Jacob  Hands- 
ford  was  in  bed  and  all  was  still,  Ursula  waited 
and  listened,  before  she  ventured  to  creep 
downstairs. 

She  had  taken  no  pains,  to-night,  to  keep  the 
fire  from  going  out,  and  the  kitchen  was  quite 
dark.  She  had  to  feel  her  way  across  the  room. 
She  had  thrown  a  short,  round  cape  over  her 
shoulders  and  the  edge  of  it  swept  a  drinking 
horn  from  off  the  corner  of  the  bench  as  she 
passed.  It  fell  against  the  stool  and  rolled 
away  across  the  floor.  The  noise  and  clatter 
of  it  quite  startled  her.  Then  she  bethought 
herself  that  it  was  wiser  to  strike  a  light  before 
going  to  let  Jack  in.  He  would  but  blunder 
upon  something  or  the  other  and  rouse  the 
house.  But  even  the  snick  of  the  steel  against 
the 'flint  sounded  strangely  loud.  And  if  she 
carried  the  candle  out  to  door,  somebody  might 


Ursula's  Scheme  185 

see.  The  girl  was  so  keenly  alive  to  what  she 
was  about  that  she  crept  out  into  the  yard, 
called  him  in,  closed  the  door  behind,  and  bade 
him  wait  where  he  was  whilst  she  fetched  the 
light  to  show  the  way. 

"Ursie " 

She  raised  her  finger  at  once  to  cut  his  ques- 
tion short.  He  spoke  in  a  deep,  bass  whisper 
that,  in  the  quiet  of  night,  seemed  to  rumble 
all  through  the  place,  and  Ursula  had  set  her 
heart  so  dearly  upon  the  thing  she  had  in  hand 
to  do  that  the  mere  thought  of  interruption 
frightened  her. 

She  crossed  to  her  father's  old  bureau,  noise- 
lessly drew  out  the  rests  and  turned  back  the 
slanting  lid.  In  one  of  the  square  pigeon-holes 
were  two  letters,  both  brought  by  hand  within 
the  last  week.  Her  father  had  sat  down — in 
a  temper — and  had  written  an  angry  answer 
to  the  first.  Never  had  Ursula  beheld  such 
urgent  haste  in  all  her  life.  Why,  to  send  a 
message  by  writing  did  not  happen  once  in  a 
blue  moon.  And  for  very  good  reason,  too, 
since  it  was  so  much  easier  to  wait  a  week  or  so 
for  a  chance  to  say  what  you  mid  have  to  say 
by  word  o'  mouth.  Something  was  going  on. 

13 


1 86  A  Tangled  Web 

Ursula  was  sure  of  it.  And  his  frequent  por- 
ing over  the  figuring,  too— that  was  strange. 
It  must  be  about  this  taking  of  Winterhays. 
Her  mind  was  bent  upon  knowing,  if  it  took 
all  night. 

She  opened  the  book  at  the  beginning,  placed 
the  candle  to  light  the  page,  and  beckoned  to 
young  Jack. 

"Read  it  out,  but  soft,  like,"  she  said,  in  his 
ear. 

The  young  Jack  knit  his  brows  into  a  frown 
too  frightful  for  words  to  tell,  as  he  drew  his 
finger  along  the  line  and  spelt  and  read  aloud. 

"To  charm  away  warts.  Take  a  bit  of  rancy 
bacon,  rub  the  warts  well,  and  bury  it  under 
the  middle  stone  of  the  drashle  of  the  stable 
door.  The  warts  will  then  go." 

"Tidden  that,"  said  Ursula,  quickly,  point- 
ing hap-hazard  at  writing  lower  down  on  the 
same  leaf.  "There,  what's  this  about?" 

"To  ward  off  the  evil  eye " 

"No,  not  that.    There  then— there." 

"To  cure  poll-evil!' 

"La!"  burst  out  the  girl,  sharply,  being  on 
edge  with  impatience.  "I  sim,  if  I  were  a 
scholar,  I  could  soon  find  out  what  I  do  want. 


Ursula's  Scheme  187 

Turn  over  leaf.  Turn  on  till  you  do  zee  where 
he  do  put  down  about  his  money." 

The  early  pages  were  covered  thick  with 
charms  and  cures  and  recipes  intermixed  with 
here  and  there  a  maxim  of  prudent  husbandry, 
culled  and  copied  in  full  out  of  some  printed 
book  in  the  small,  scram  hand  of  Jacob  Hands- 
ford.  Then  came  a  blank  as  if  all  were  done. 
And  then  again  was  writing  in  another  shape, 
unlocked  for,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  book. 

"What's  that?" 

Jack  pulled  closer  the  candle,  snuffed  it,  bent 
down  his  head  and  began  to  puzzle  again. 

"The  count  of  the  two  hundred  pounds  left 
by  Jeremy  Handsford,  and  put  out  to  use  upon 
security  to  Mr.  Malachi  Webb." 

"That's  it.  That's  it.  That's  my  money, 
Jack.  Read  it  out  quick,  there's  a  dear,  good 
chap."  She  caught  him  hold  by  the  arm  and 
squeezed  him  with  delight.  "An'  that's  who 
one  o'  the  letters  was  from,  too.  Here !  Stop 
a  minute.  Look  here." 

From  the  pigeon-holes  in  front  of  them,  she 
hastily  reached  down  two  thin  sheets  of  paper, 
both  folded  alike  and  broken  around  the  red 
wafers  where  they  had  been  torn  abroad.  One 


1 88  A  Tangled  Web 

after  the  other  she  opened  and  spread  them  out 
before  him  on  the  desk. 

"There,  read  they  first,  Jack,"  she  told  him. 

They  were  both  from  Malachi  Webb,  and 
the  story  which  they  had  to  tell  was  clear  and 
not  to  be  mistaken. '  The  earlier  was  the  longer, 
and  to  this  Jacob  had  sent  the  sharp  reply.  It 
was  in  a  tone  of  complaint.  He  should  be  "a 
goodish  bit  put  about,"  so  Malachi  said,  to  pay 
off  the  mortgage  in  such  a  hurry;  and  he 
thought  it  a  very  hard  thing  to  have  it  called 
in,  in  such  a  sudden  way,  in  a  time  of  misfor- 
tune and  when  the  use-money  had  never  been 
even  a  day  late.  He  begged  of  Mr.  Jacob 
Handsford  to  think  it  over  again  before  put- 
ting him  to  so  much  loss,  to  say  nothing  of  ill- 
convenience. 

Ursula  could  not  hold  her  peace  to  listen  to 
the  end.  She  stood  up,  from  leaning  on  the 
bureau,  and  stamped  her  bare  foot  upon  the 
ground.  Forgetful  of  the  need  for  silence, 
she  spoke  no  more  in  a  whisper,  but  as  if,  for 
anything  she  cared,  all  the  world  might  hear. 

"Then  'tis  all  a  lie  to  put  me  off  that  he  told 
by  now,  about  not  being  able  to  call  it  in  afore 
Midsummer.  He  could  do  it  when  it  suited 


Ursula's  Scheme  189 

'un,  well  enough.  Ay,  or  any  other  mortal 
thing  to  gain  his  own  ends.  Pinch  and  scrape 
and  squeeze  and  starve  his  own  zelf  or  ruin 
anybody  else  to  gain  a  penny  the  more.  But 
I'll  have  it  out  o'  un.  I'll  go  to-morrow." 

''Hush,  Ursie.  He'll  hear  'ee  an'  come 
down." 

"An'  I  don't  care  if  he  do.  I  ben't  afeared 
o'  un  one  mo'sel  bit.  Why,  there's  scarce  a 
minute  o'  the  day — what  wi'  his  talk  o'  other 
folk;  or  his  peeping  an'  watchin'  what  you  do 
do — from  morning  when  he  do  look  for  the 
broken  crust  for  Hannah  that  were  left  over- 
night, to  the  last  thing  when  his  eye  do  meas- 
ure the  candle-end  afore  he  do  blow  out  the 
light — when  I  couldn'  catch  un  hold  by  the 
neck  an'  kill  un.  I  could.  Now.  When  I  do 
but  think  o'  it,  I  could  kill  un." 

Her  voice  had  risen  almost  into  a  scream. 
It  was  the  anger  of  a  free  heart  pent-up  and 
imprisoned  through  all  its  youth  with  a  ring 
of  meannesses  that  stood  together,  close  as  the 
bars  of  a  cage.  But  Ursula's  face  told  more 
than  her  words.  Two  deep  furrows  frowned 
between  her  brows,  and  her  eyes  glared  with 
fury,  as  she  cried  again, 


190  A  Tangled  Web 

"I  could,  I  could." 

Then  she  stepped  quickly  back  to  the  letter. 

"Come,  let's  hear  the  upshot  about  Malachi 
Webb,"  she  said. 

The  second  letter  was  very  brief.  The  bor- 
rower must  have  found  a  friend  to  help  him 
through,  and  now  a  strain  of  confidence  and 
manly  independence  underlay  Malachi's  style. 
There  was  almost  a  sneer  in  the  way  he  stuck 
up  for  himself,  telling  Jacob  to  rest  his  mind 
in  peace,  for  his  money  he  should  have  to  the 
last  farthing  upon  April  I3th,  and  not  one 
minute  before — "when  is  the  right  time  you 
can  call  it  in  by  law,  and  I  will  meet  you  to 
Wincanton  town  after  work  that  evening,  for 
the  convenience  of  both,  there  to  pay  the  money 
into  your  own  hand,  and  take  your  quittance 
in  full,"  added  Malachi,  and  signed  his  name 
with  a  flourish  full  of  pride. 

"When  is  it?"  she  asked,  looking  Jack  full  in 
the  face. 

He  laid  hand  to  forehead,  trying  to  count 
right  back  from  quarter-day.  His  brain  was 
not  so  nimble  as  hers. 

"  'Twere  the  zebenth  o'  Zunday,"  she  said, 
quickly,  telling  the  days  upon  her  fingers, 


Ursula's  Scheme  191 

"Monday,  eight;  Tuesday,  nine;  Wednesday, 
ten." 

"Ay.  But  'tis  Good  Friday,  to-morrow,  and 
that  do  vail  on  the  twelfth.  Mus'  be  o'  Zatur- 
day,  then,"  he  put  in,  suddenly  recollecting, 
after  he  had  fallen  into  hopeless  confusion. 

"Jack,"  she  went  on,  eagerly,  craning  her 
head  towards  him  and  holding  out  a  hand 
quivering  with  excitement.  "Do  'ee  zee 
through  it?  Can  'ee  read  the  meaning  o'  it 
all?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  perplexity,  not  catching 
what  she  meant. 

"He've  a-called  it  in,  Jack,  so  as  to  be  ready 
to  take  up  Winterhays." 

"That's  what  'tis,  for  certain  sure,"  sighed 
Jack. 

Then  he  frowned.  His  lips  and  brow  be- 
came hard-set.  He  looked  as  she  had  seen  him 
many  a  time,  when  he  stood  up  for  a  bout  of 
cudgel-playing,  or  knelt  on  one  knee  on  the 
grass  to  set  "Hold-fast"  fair  at  the  bull. 

"So  he's  using  my  own  money — for  'tis  the 
very  same  by  the  book — to  bring  about  my  own 
ruin.  For  what's  mine  is  yours,  Jack,  or  will 
be  any  time  you  do  like.  For  I'll  marry  'ee  so 


192  A  Tangled  Web 

soon  as  ever  the  time  do  allow.  The  Monday 
a'ter  we  be  called  home  the  day  afore.  An' 
I'll  never  put  up  wi'  it.  "Tis  mine,  an'  I'll  have 
it,  come  what  may.  So  there." 

In  her  excitement,  she  turned  back  to  the 
desk  and  took  up  the  letter  she  could  not  read. 

*'An'  so  you  ought,"  he  added,  grimly,  truly 
angry  on  Ursie's  behalf.  Though,  for  the  life 
of  him,  he  could  have  given  no  counsel  as  to 
how  it  might  be  brought  about.  At  the  sports, 
or  on  the  farm,  he  was  sharp  enough,  and  could 
make  things  hum;  but  of  law  and  all  such 
business  there  was  not  a  notion  in  his  brain. 

Then  it  suddenly  flashed  upon  Ursula  what 
they  might  do. 

Her  voice  sank  into  an  awesome  whisper, 
for  her  heart  half  failed  as  she  gave  words  to 
its  own  prompting. 

"He'll  bring  the  money  home,  here,"  she 
said,  and  stopped. 

"To  be  sure;  he  can't  use  it  till  answer  is 
a-gied — the  best  part  of  a  week." 

"No.  He'll  bring  it  home  an'  hide  it 
away " 

"An'  you'll  find  it,  Ursie,"  spoke  up  Jack, 
catching  at  what  she  meant. 


Ursula's  Scheme  193 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"You  mid  watch  an'  peep  till  doomsday  an' 
not  do  that/'  she  said.  "He's  so  secret  an'  sly. 
He'll  never  drop  a  word  about  going  till  'tis 
time  to  start.  An'  Jack,  if  I  do  let  the  old  mare 
out  in  common,  late  in  a'ternoon,  an'  keep  out 
o'  the  way,  he'll  never  catch  her  by  hiszelf,  not 
in  a  blue  moon." 

"But  if  he  couldn't  go,  Ursie,  Malachi  'ud 
pay  im  on  the  morrow  just  the  same." 

"Couldn'  go?"  she  cried,  with  some  impa- 
tience at  finding  him  so  dull ;  for  she  was  all  on 
edge  herself  with  the  thought  that  had  sud- 
denly come  into  her  brain.  "He'd  have  to  go 
a-voot,  for  go  he  will,  if  'tis  bare-voot.  An* 
Jack,"  she  turned  towards  him  and  stopped. 
She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  again  her  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper,  "He  could  nohow  get  back 
then  till  a'ter  dark." 

Their  eyes  met.  They  gazed  speechless  at 
each  other.  Both  understood ;  but,  for  a  while, 
neither  had  the  courage,  even  in  the  silent  se- 
curity of  night,  to  breathe  the  word. 

It  was  Ursula  who  spoke  first. 

"If — if  anybeddy  were  to  wait — there,  in  the 
dark,  between  the  high  trees,  near  by  the  cross-. 


194  A  Tangled  Web 

roads — they — they  would  stop  un,  an'  take 
all,"  she  stammered. 

"  'Tis  the  gallis,  Ursie,  to  rob  on  the  high- 
road," he  said,  hoarsely. 

"I  don't  call  it  to  rob,"  she  broke  out,  warm- 
ly, for  Ursula's  nature  was  frank  and  honest 
as  his.  "  'Tis  but  to  take  our  own.  An'  he'll 
be  nothing  the  worse.  Not  a  varden  out  o' 
pocket — not  in  all  honesty.  For  he'll  never  pay 
— not  he!  An'  though,  for  a  blind,  we  mid 
claim  to  make  un,  nothing  but  law  can  do  that. 
So,  from  time  to  time,  we  could  threaten  an' 
zit  still.  He'll  hollar,  but  he'll  lost  nothing  o' 
his  own." 

"I  misdoubt  it  'ud  never  save  a  neck  from 
the  halter  to  tell  a  judge  an'  jury  that,"  he  told 
her,  shaking  his  head. 

"But  nobody  could  ever  know.  How  could 
any  soul  ever  vind  it  out?  Oh,  Jack,  dear," 
she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
"I  can't  a-bear  to  think  that  'tis  we  shall  do 
your  mother  out  o'  house  an'  home.  For  Wil- 
liam 'ud  a-come  an'  put  all  straight.  He  had 
the  means  to,  by  his  letter.  That's  what  I  do 
feel.  He  faced  death  for  it,  an'  got  it,  but 
'twere  we  that  spoiled  all." 


Ursula's  Scheme  195 

"Like  as  not,  your  vather  'ud  know  me, 
Ursie,"  he  faltered,  yielding  to  her  caress,  and 
neither  strong  enough  to  answer  "yes"  nor 
"no." 

"  'Tis  pitch-dark  there  along  by  the  wood," 
she  urged,  again,  in  a  low  whisper. 

"He'd  know  me  by  my  voice.  An'  all  the 
Whites  have  a-bin  honest,  time  out  o'  mind." 

"What  need  to  speak  ?  Stay  in  wait  against 
a  tree.  Let  un  pass  an'  then  step  out  an'  catch 
un  hold.  He'd  be  no  more  'an  a  chile  in  your 
arms.  You've  no  call  to  hurt  un.  He  ha'n't 
a-got  the  heart  of  a  mouse,  nor  the  strength  of 
a  vly.  He'll  gie  it  up  to  once  and  none'll  ever 
know.  An'  'tis  my  own — the  very  same  that 
were  lef  to  me.  If  I  were  but  a  man,  I'd  go  an' 
take  it  for  myself." 

At  the  thought  of  this  money,  her  anger 
against  her  father  re-kindled,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, overcame  her  love.  She  drew  away 
from  her  lover  and  stood  upright.  Her  spirit 
was  as  bold  as  her  words,  and  it  was  plain  to 
see  that  Ursula  Handsford  made  no  boast.  "I 
wish  I  had  a-bin  a  man,"  she  cried. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  told  her,  quickly.  "I'll  do 
whatever  you  do  zay.  For  I  do  love  *ee  so 


196  A  Tangled  Web 

dearly,  Ursie,  that  I  must,  whether  my  mind 
do  go  wi'  it  or  no.  I  do  care  for  nothing  'pon 
earth  but  you " 

"There's  a  long  coat — a  gentleman's  riding- 
coat,  only  he's  in  holes  an'  libbets — he  put  un 
away  to  make  a  mommet,  just  the  very  same  as 
he  do  do  wi'  everything  he  do  think  he  can 
turn  to  use.  I'll  vetch  un  down  in  morning, 
and  you  shall  wear  un,  Jack.  He'll  cover  'ee 
right  up.  Vather  could  never  tell  'ee,  no,  not 
if  you  wur  his  own  son." 

"I'll  do  it,  Ursie.  Hit  or  miss,  I'll  take  it  in 
han'.  I'll  get  your  money  if  I " 

"Hush,"  she  whispered,  holding  up  her  fin- 
ger. "Don't  'ee  talk  so  loud.  Creep  into  the 
corner,  Jack,  an'  sit  down.  I'll  put  away  the 
things  so  neat  as  if  they  never  had  a-bin 
touched — an'  dout  the  light — an'  come  an'  talk 
wi'  'ee,  Jack.  You've  a-got  no  call  to  go  till 
daybreak  or  a  little  afore." 

She  quietly  closed  the  bureau,  blew  out  the 
candle,  and  groped  her  way  to  him  on  the  seat 
beside  the  hearth.  It  was  quite  dark,  though 
the  warmth  of  the  fire  still  hung  about  the  floor 
and  walls.  A  gust  of  wind  passed  moaning 
overhead.  Heavy  drops  of  rain  beat  down  the 


Ursula's  Scheme  197 

open  chimney,  above  which  was  a  black  cloud. 
And  then  the  stars,  brighter  against  the  sooty 
darkness  than  they  ever  shone  in  open  night, 
gleamed  out  again  as  the  April  shower  swept 
past. 

She  threw  aside  her  cape.  She  leaned  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder  with  her  glowing  cheek 
to  his.  Her  brain  was  all  on  fire.  Thoughts 
sprang  up  as  quick  as  flames,  she  knew  not 
whence  or  how. 

"I  can  zee  how  to  make  all  safe,"  she  went 
on,  in  a  quick,  low  voice.  "Or,  anyway,  to 
baffle  un  if  he  should  have  an  inkling  who  mid 
be.  Hannah  is  a  good  girl.  She  cried  her  eyes 
out,  a'most,  this  very  a'ternoon,  to  think  that  I 
should  marry  an'  go.  She'll  do  anything  'pon 
earth  to  please  me.  You  mus'  come  down 
here,  Jack,  so  soon  as  Vather  have  a-started. 
An'  the  maid  shall  zee  'ee  here.  An'  you  can 
bide,  an'  talk  wi'  her,  too,  a  bit.  An',  just 
afore  you  do  go,  we'll  put  her  out  to  gate  to 
watch  for  Vather  to  come  down  road,  an'  run 
in  an'  let  us  know.  An'  you'll  slip  out  by  the 
back,  Jack,  all  unbeknown.  An'  when  you've 
a-met  wi'  un,  an'  stopped  un,  an'  got  my 
money,  you'll  turn  back  upon  the  road — an' 


198  A  Tangled  Web 

quick  athirt  the  fields — an'  in  afore  he  can  get 
roun'.  An'  the  maid'll  find  'ee  here  just  as  she 
left  'ee.  Ay !  an'  then  you  shall  loiter  a  bit  too 
long,  an'  the  old  man  shall  catch  sight  o'  'ee, 
too,  as  you  do  go  out.  An',  if  he  should  zay  a 
word,  I'll  up  an'  tell  un,  now  we've  a-put  in  the 
banns,  you  shall  come  an'  go  as  you  like,  or  I'll 
lef  the  house  there-right." 

"How  you  do  think  of  things,  Ursie.  An* 
bring  anybeddy  to  your  own  mind,  too,"  he 
said.  "I  sim  I  could  never  go  again  a  thing 
you  do  zay — I  do  love  'ee  so." 

For  answer,  she  pressed  her  burning  lips  to 
his. 

In  the  glow  and  rapture  of  their  love,  the 
undertaking  for  to-morrow  night  passed  out  of 
mind.  Ursula's  plans,  so  clear  and  simple,  had 
lulled  their  fears  and  set  aside  the  difficulties 
besetting  their  path.  All  looked  easy,  and 
could  not  fail  to  turn  out  all  right.  Ursula 
would  get  her  own.  Then  they  could  see  their 
way.  Winterhays  would  be  saved,  too.  They 
were  full  of  hope.  The  banns  were  in  to-day. 
They  were  as  good  as  man  and  wife  al- 
ready. 

"An'  I  do  love  'ee,  too,  dear  Jack;  so  much 


Ursula's  Scheme  199 

as  heart  can  hold,"  she  breathed,  drawing  his 
head  closer,  and  pressing  her  hands  against  his 
cheeks. 

It  was  the  truth,  and  words  could  say  no 
more.  He  worshipped  her  with  the  blind  de- 
votion of  a  stripling  in  his  first  love;  but  hers 
was  the  full  passion  of  a  ripe  womanhood 
which  had  waited  long. 

"I  sim  I  can  never  leave  'ee,  Ursie." 

"  "Tis  full  early  yet,  we  can  bide  for  hours," 
she  said. 

They  stayed  there  in  the  kitchen  all  night 
through. 

The  stars  that  looked  down  at  them  from 
above  the  chimney-top  began  to  pale.  The 
first  grey  light  of  dawn  found  out  each  chink 
in  the  shuttered  window  and  peered  beneath  the 
door.  But  still  they  could  not  part. 

When,  at  last,  the  time  had  come  that  he 
must  needs  go,  she  led  him  out  into  the  court- 
yard, and  in  the  first  cold  light  of  morning  held 
him  fast  again. 

Whilst  she  clung  to  him,  her  cheek  grew 
crimson.  She  hid  her  face  upon  his  shoulder 
as  if  she  were  ashamed.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  neck  below  her  bright  red  hair. 


200  A  Tangled  Web 

"But  we  can  be  married,  Jack  dear,  afore  the 
month  is  out,"  she  sighed. 

"In  little  better  than  a  fortnight,  Ursie,"  he 
said. 

Then  they  parted  hastily,  and,  without  look- 
ing back,  she  ran  indoors.  She  barred  all  up, 
and  crept  into  her  room  an  hour  before  her 
father  was  astir. 

When,  as  soon  as  day  came  up,  he  called  and 
beat  upon  the  stairs,  she  came  down  as  usual 
and  went  out  to  fetch  the  cows. 

At  the  milking  and  afterwards,  the  whole 
day  through,  Jacob  Handsford  was  quite  con- 
tented and  merry — for  him.  He  did  not 
grumble  once,  morning  or  afternoon,  even  at 
Hannah  Peach,  until  toward  evening,  when  he 
found  the  mare  had  broken  fence  and  strayed. 
Then  he  called,  and  raved,  and  cursed ;  only  it 
so  fell  out  there  was  no  one  thereabout  to  hear. 


The  Highway  201 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   HIGH  WAY 

The  time  was  come  for  Jack  to  start. 

From  the  kitchen  window  he  and  Ursula 
watched,  at  sundown,  the  last  gleam  of  light  die 
out  beyond  the  hill.  The  promise  of  the  early 
part  of  the  week  that  Spring  was  come  had  been 
belied.  Good  Friday  had  been  cold  and  wet. 
Folk  rubbed  their  hands,  put  on  more  logs  at 
night,  and  talked  of  winter — blackthorn  win- 
ter, as  they  called  it,  because  the  wild  sloe  was 
in  flower.  To-day  there  had  been  wild  gusts 
of  wind,  and  angry  pattering  of  hail  at  times 
during  the  afternoon;  but  now  the  sky  was 
overcast  with  heavy  cloud.  Almost  at  once 
the  darkness  fell,  and  the  brief  twilight  turned 
to  night.  Houses,  trees,  and  orchards  melted 
into  gloom.  It  grew  so  black  they  could  not 
see  the  stalls  across  the  barton  yard. 

Everything  had  fallen  out  just  as  Ursula 
foresaw. 

Rather  than  wait  a  day,  when  the  money 
was  within  reach,  her  father  soon  gave  over 

14 


2O2  A  Tangled  Web 

trying  to  catch  the  mare,  and  started  a-foot 
without  a  word  to  anybody  of  his  errand.  To 
make  sure,  she  had  run  into  the  orchard  and 
stood  back  out  of  sight  behind  the  leaning  trees 
to  see  him  pass.  He  was  late,  and  red,  and  out 
of  breath  with  running  and  shouting,  yet  he 
went  in  haste.  Now,  little  Hannah  Peach,  glad 
as  a  child  to  be  of  use  to  Miss  Urs'la,  stood 
posted  just  within  the  gate,  with  ears  alert  to 
listen  for  his  footfall  on  the  road.  Yet  the 
lovers  lingered  for  a  while.  ,  It  was  well  that 
everybody  should  get  indoors.  Might  some 
belated  villager  only  chance  to  meet  young 
Jack,  and  bid  him  "good-night,"  there  was 
an  end  to  all  the  fine  tale  that  Hannah  Peach 
could  tell. 

They  could  not  talk  of  what  they  had  in 
hand.  Not  that  the  thought  of  danger  held 
them  tongue-tied.  But  they  were  on  tenter- 
hooks, as  folks  say,  until  the  thing  was  done. 
If  either  were  shaken  in  courage,  it  was  Ursula 
who  wavered  now.  To  young  Jack,  as  soon 
as  his  mind  grew  used  to  it,  the  thing  looked 
easy.  For  robbery  on  the  road  was  common 
in  those  days,  and  though  the  penalty  was 
hard,  not  once  in  a  hundred  times  did  a  high- 


The  Highway  203 

way  man  get  caught  and  brought  to  justice. 
Why,  many  a  man  lived  on  it  all  his  life  and 
died  in  bed  at  last.  Jack's  only  fear  was  that 
something  might  go  awry.  Jacob  Handsford 
might  think  twice  about  carrying  so  much  by 
night,  though  Ursula  felt  sure  he  would  never 
let  money  out  of  his  clutch.  Or  he  might  hap- 
pen to  come  home  in  company.  Though,  for 
that  matter,  he  had  never  a  friend  in  the  world, 
and  he  would  sooner  walk  alone  until  morning 
than  trust  himself  to  a  stranger  by  the  way. 
Or  Jack  might  miss  him.  Though  that  could 
scarcely  be.  His  only  trouble,  when  once  his 
mind  got  used  to  the  thing  in  hand,  was  lest  this 
chance  should  slip. 

"  'Tis  time  I  do  start,  Ursie,"  he  whispered, 
restlessly,  at  last,  "or  he'll  ha'  passed  the  place." 

"He  can't  come  yet  for  a  bit." 

"  'Tis  a  good  step  to  get  there." 

Now  that  they  came  to  the  point,  Ursula  was 
on  the  verge  of  breaking  down. 

"There's  no  hurt  can  came  to  'ee,  Jack, 
dear,  is  there  ?"  she  stammered,  uneasily.  She 
caught  him  by  both  arms,  standing  straight  in 
front  as  if  to  block  the  way. 

"None  in  the  world,"  he  answered,  gaily. 


204  A  Tangled  Web 

Ursula  sighed.  "I  can't  a-bear  to  let  'ee 
go,"  she  said.  "Lord,  if  Vather  should  know 
thee,  Jack!" 

"Not  he,"  he  laughed,  and  gave  her  a  kiss 
as  he  set  her  aside. 

The  old  coat,  put  away  to  use  for  a  scare- 
crow, had  been  smuggled  indoors.  He  put  it 
on.  It  was  thread-bare  and  in  tatters,  but 
what  did  it  matter  for  that  ?  It  was  long,  and 
reached  below  his  knees — and  broad,  making 
another  man  of  him  altogether. 

She  took  courage.  "Ay,  an'  't  'ull  shoot 
off  the  rain,  so  as  when  he  do  find  'ee  here, 
you'll  be  zo  dry  as  a  bone.  That  'ull  be  proof, 
too,  you  ha'n't  a-bin  out  in  the  wet,"  she  cried, 
eagerly;  but  then  arose  another  fear. 

"Mayhap  he  mid  chance  to  catch  a  sight  o' 
your  face." 

"He  could  never  so  much  as  glimpse  it  in 
the  dark." 

But  she  ran  to  fetch  a  "neckercher"  never- 
theless to  muffle  around  and  make  all  sure. 

Then,  with  both  hands  she  clutched  his  arm, 
as  they  went  together  out  in  the  night,  careful 
not  to  make  a  sound  lest  the  little  maid  might 
hear. 


The  Highway  205 

"An'  don't  'ee  wait  a  minute,  Jack,  dear, 
afore  you  do  run  back  an'  let  me  know  an'  see 
you  be  safe,"  she  implored,  still  holding  him 
fast.  "I  shall  look  for  'ee  every  minute,  an' 
'twill  seem  a  year — till  you  be  here  again  to 
show  me  everything  have  a-turned  out  well." 

"I'll  come  straight  back,  Ursie,  so  quick  as 
ever  feet  can  run." 

For  a  moment  she  pressed  him  closer  still. 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  she  let  him  go. 

He  clambered  over  the  low  wall  into  the 
field,  and  quickly  vanished  into  the  gloom.  In 
the  heart  of  Ursula  arose  a  sudden  misgiving  of 
evil — an  eager  prompting  to  cry  out  and  call 
him  back.  But  she  did  not.  She  wavered, 
half  afraid  to  speak,  too,  lest  Hannah  Peach 
should  hear,  and  then  it  was  too  late.  Yet 
what  ill  could  befall  him  ?  None  in  the  world. 
Not  so  much  a  dread  of  the  undertaking  but 
her  love  for  him  had  made  her  coward.  She 
could  not  help  it.  The  other  night  all  looked  so 
simple  and  so  safe — and  now  she  saw  only  the 
risk.  Oh,  God!  if  anything  should  happen  to 
Jack !  And  she  had  sent  him  upon  the  errand. 
Yet  what  could  ?  Heavy  with  doubt  and  a  sad 
foreboding,  which  her  mind  told  her  was  with- 


206  A  Tangled  Web 

out  sense  and  yet  harboured  aH  the  more,  she 
crept  indoors  to  the  kitchen  and  sat  down  to 
wait. 

As  to  Jack,  he  went  with  a  light  heart 
enough.  The  thing  was  easy  enough  to  do — 
to  stop  a  man  three  times  his  age,  and  not  of 
half  his  strength.  There  was  nothing  on  earth 
he  would  not  attempt  to  please  Ursula.  And 
this  had  right  on  its  side.  It  was  Ursula's 
very  own  money  as  clear  as  pen  and  ink  could 
show.  And  as  for  Jacob  Handsford,  he  hated 
him.  Not  only  for  the  grudge  owing  because 
of  the  land,  but  with  the  deep  dislike  that  ava- 
rice and  evil  nature  draw  down  upon  a  man. 
The  thing  well  and  safe  done  was  no  more  to 
his  mind  than  a  grim  joke.  And  how  all  the 
neighbours  would  chuckle  and  laugh  when  they 
heard  that  little  Jakey  Handsford  had  been 
robbed.  Ha!  and  then,  like  enough,  Jacob 
would  be  mean  enough  to  put  out  the  excuse 
that  it  was  Ursula's  money  which  was  gone, 
and  so  he  was  quit  of  her  claim. 

Yet  even  the  most  harmless  Christmas  prank 
has  to  be  done  with  judgment,  and  forethought, 
and  on  the  sly.  All  must  turn  out  well  if  only 
he  could  get  to  and  fro  unseen.  It  is  better  not 


The  Highway  207 

to  follow  the  path,  but  to  strike  at  once  across 
the  open  ground.  Nobody  was  likely  to  be 
about,  but  now  and  again  he  stood  and  listened 
all  the  same.  Under  the  shelter  of  the  hill,  the 
valley  lay  quite  still.  There  was  not  a  sound 
of  moving — man  or  beast.  The  village  win- 
dows glimmered  one  above  another,  here,  close 
together,  there,  solitary  and  wide  apart,  all  up 
the  slope,  a  light  in  every  house.  A  small  driz- 
zle, fine  as  a  mist,  was  beginning  to  fall,  and  the 
night  threatened  more  storm  and  rain. 

That  was  good.  The  thick  darkness  blotted 
out  all  landmarks,  so  that,  if  he  had  not  known 
the  country  every  step,  he  must  have  missed 
the  way.  But  he  had  the  luck  to  hit  the  gap 
and  clambered  through  the  gully,  where  great 
stones  gave  a  passage  dry-shod  above  the  water 
and  across  the  mud.  After  that  the  fields 
were  his  own — all  up  the  slanting  corn- 
grounds,  along  the  copse,  and  so  over  a  gate 
into  the  road. 

The  spot  upon  the  highway  where  he  came 
out  of  the  fields  was  too  open  to  please  him. 
There  lay  a  strip  of  grass  upon  each  side,  and 
the  hedges  stood  too  far  back  to  offer  a  hiding 
place.  These  wayside  wastes  were  common 


208  A  Tangled  Web 

between  market  towns  in  olden  times,  when 
land  was  cheaper  than  it  is  to-day.  In  the  first 
place,  they  had  been  left  by  law  to  give  security 
from  surprise  to  the  home-returning  traveller ; 
and  to-day  there  was  neither  bush  nor  cover 
by  which  he  could  lurk  without  fear  of  being 
seen.  More  than  that,  he  was  too  near  the  vil- 
lage if  Jacob  might  hap  to  cry  for  help.  But, 
further  on,  great  trees  had  been  allowed  to 
grow  up  quite  close  and  partly  overhanging  the 
highway.  Towards  them  Jack  White  made 
the  best  of  his  way,  keeping  upon  the  soft  sod, 
and  feeling  before  him  with  the  stout  ground- 
ash  stick  he  always  carried  in  his  hand.  Very 
soon  he  came  to  an  old  elm,  tall  and  weather- 
beaten,  trimmed  of  its  branches  half-way  up  the 
stem,  and  covered  thick  with  ivy.  Against 
this  he  took  his  stand. 

Here,  on  the  height,  the  rising  wind  was  free 
to  have  its  way.  It  moaned  and  whistled  as  it 
drove  sweeping  through  the  bare  branches  that 
kept  creaking  as  they  bent  and  swayed  above 
his  head.  The  fine  rain,  now  falling  thick  and 
fast,  gathered  on  the  limbs  above  and  fell  in 
great  drops  which  kept  striking  with  a  thud 
against  the  broad  ivy  leaves.  It  was  a  night 


The  Highway  209 

when  those  who  were  in  would  stay,  and  any 
who  must  needs  be  out  would  hasten  on  his 
way. 

But  time  went  by,  and  Jacob  Handsford  did 
not  come. 

How  late  it  might  be  young  Jack  could  not 
so  much  as  give  a  guess.  He  tried  to  reckon 
on  from  sunset — so  long  in  the  house,  so  long 
across  the  fields,  and  now  it  seemed  an  age 
under  the  tree.  In  places  through  the  holes 
and  tatters  of  the  old  riding-coat  he  was  get- 
ting wet  to  the  skin.  He  dared  not  after  this 
be  caught  sitting  with  Ursula  at  the  farm.  He 
must  go  just  when  the  maid  came  in  to  tell. 
The  wet-stained  patches  beneath  upon  his  own 
coat  would  catch  the  eye  of  Jacob  Handsford 
at  once,  and  give  the  lie  to  anything  that  Han- 
nah Peach  could  say. 

From  time  to  time  he  stepped  out  into  the 
road  to  hearken. 

Now  that  his  eyes  were  used  to  the  darkness, 
beyond  the  trees  he  could  dimly  make  out  the 
way  running  straight  along  the  lonely  ridge. 
But  nobody  could  he  see.  How  long  was  it 
good  to  wait?  Jacob  Handsford  must  have 
gone  by  before  he  came.  Their  only  chance 


2i o  A  Tangled  Web 

was  gone.  His  heart  sank.  He  had  missed 
laying  hands  on  Ursula's  money,  and  the  hold- 
ing of  Winterhays  was  lost.  Not  until  now, 
when  he  felt  sure  their  plan  had  failed,  did  he 
know  how  keenly  he  was  bent  on  carrying  it 
out.  He  ought  to  have  started  before — just 
in  the  first  dumps,  like,  before  dark-night. 
Ursula  had  kept  him.  too  late,  he  said  to  him- 
self. 

And  yet  Jacob  could  never  have  got  home  so 
soon.  Like  enough  the  turning  out  of  the 
mare  had  upset  his  plans,  so  that  he  had  missed 
Malachi  after  all.  Perhaps  even  followed  him 
home  to  his  own  house,  which  would  bring 
Jacob  back  to  Bratton  by  another  way. 

Still  Jack  waited,  in  spite  of  all  his  doubts. 

Suddenly  a  sound  fell  upon  his  ear.  Some- 
thing that  was  not  of  the  wind  and  rain.  Then 
a  gust  swept  down  the  road  that  made  it  fruit- 
less to  listen.  He  crept  back  on  tiptoe  amongst 
the  trees  to  wait.  After  the  blast  followed  a 
lull.  Yes,  somebody  was  coming.  Now  and 
again  he  could  distinctly  catch  the  clink  of  a 
footstep  far  away — a  short,  quick  step  walking 
in  haste.  Soon  he  could  dimly  make  out  the 
figure  of  a  man — then,  as  it  came  closer  still, 


The  Highway  21 1 

i 
the  short  stature  of  Jacob,  leaning  forward  as 

he  hurried  on  against  the  wind. 

He  wrapped  the  "neckercher"  around  his 
face  right  up  to  his  eyes.  He  was  wet  and  cold, 
but  a  grim  gladness  warmed  the  heart  of  young 
Jack  White.  It  was  all  right.  Nothing  could 
have  turned  out  better,  after  all.  He  felt  cer- 
tain that  Jacob  carried  the  money.  There  was 
eagerness  and  excitement  in  the  man's  pace. 

His  plan  was  simple.  He  must  let  Jacob 
pass;  then  spring  out  unawares,  throw  both 
hands  around  him  from  behind  his  back  and 
grip  him  fast.  Ten  to  one,  feeling  his  weak- 
ness, Jacob  would  give  up  at  once.  Or,  at 
most,  whine  and  swear  himself  a  poor  farmer 
on  his  way  home  with  nothing  about  him;  or 
offer,  mayhap,  a  little  from  his  pocket  so  as  to 
save  all.  He  would  be  cunning  for  certain 
sure,  but  if  he  were  fool  enough  to  struggle  or 
utter  cry — then  let  him  put  up  with  such  rough- 
ness as  may  befall. 

But  the  young  Jack  White  reckoned  without 
his  host. 

Jacob,  as  he  drew  near  the  trees,  with  that 
shrewd  forethought  which  lay  in  the  very  grain 
of  him,  kept  off  towards  the  other  side  of  the 


212  A  Tangled  Web 

road.  Instead  of  coming  quite  close,  he  would 
pass  ten  or  a  dozen  steps  away.  In  his  hand  he 
carried  a  stout  cudgel  with  which  he  walked. 
For  all  his  haste,  it  was  clear  to  see  the  senses 
of  the  little  man,  quickened  with  the  knowledge 
of  what  he  had  about  him,  were  keenly 
alert. 

Jack  waited  his  time.  Jacob  had  come  op- 
posite the  elms  and  but  one  pace  beyond,  when, 
suddenly  aware  of  someone  at  his  heels,  he 
abruptly  turned  round.  Quick  as  thought  he 
grasped  it  all.  Without  a  word,  he  ran  for- 
ward, raised  his  cudgel,  and  struck  with  all  his 
might. 

The  blow  fell  aslant  across  Jack's  head  and 
on  to  his  shoulder.  It  was  so  unlocked  for, 
that,  for  a  moment,  it  staggered  him. 

Then,  beyond  belief,  Jacob  rushed  wildly  on, 
striking  again  and  again  in  fierce  excitement 
with  the  fearless  rage  of  one  carried  away  by 
fear  or  driven  by  overwhelming  passion.  Sure 
enough,  Ursula  had  mistaken  her  father  when 
she  thought  him  timid  as  a  mouse.  However 
that  might  be  in  the  doings  of  every  day,  fof 
the  safety  of  his  money  he  sprang  up  to  fight 
like  fury.  That  was  everything  to  him.  He 


The  Highway  213 

came  on,  caring  neither  for  life  nor  limb.  For 
that  little  bag  of  gold  he  had  the  courage  to 
dare  anything.  Just  as  the  most  timid  of 
womenkind  will  face  any  danger  to  shelter  her 
child. 

For  a  moment,  young  Jack  did  but  parry  the 
strokes,  and  that,  too,  they  came  so  fast,  was  as 
much  as  he  could  do.  Once  or  twice  he  had 
been  struck — on  the  neck,  on  the  shoulder — 
and  he  was  smarting  on  the  arm.  He  saw  the 
danger,  too.  If,  by  a  chance  blow,  he  should 
get  knocked  down,  nothing  could  save  him 
from  the  constable  and  the  law,  for  Jacob 
Handsford,  to  be  sure,  would  leave  no  stone 
unturned. 

He  stepped  back  on  the  wayside  out  of  reach. 
He  had  been  beaten,  and  he  ached.  The  youth 
and  manhood  in  him,  the  pride  of  so  many  a 
cudgel  fight  and  wrestling  bout,  felt  shame — 
to  give  ground  to  a  weak  old  man  like  that. 
And,  now  that  his  blood  was  up,  the  money  he 
must  have,  come  what  may. 

"Body  and  soul!"  he  cursed  aloud  between 
his  teeth. 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  draw  breath.  The 
other  stood  quite  still  in  the  road,  facing  him, 


214  A  Tangled  Web 

staring  at  him,  fearful  to  turn  his  back,  yet  too 
timorous  now,  as  it  looked,  to  make  another 
onset. 

It  had  grown  lighter  than  just  now.  The 
rain  had  ceased.  Above  the  hedgerow  before 
him  shone  a  patch  of  bright  starlight  piercing 
through  a  breach  rent  in  the  cloud. 

And  still  the  little  man  stared,  his  head 
craned  forward  to  peer  through  the  gloom,  as 
if  half  recognizing  his  assailant,  yet  not  quite 
sure. 

What  if  Jacob,  even  in  the  darkness,  had 
made  him  out?  No,  that  was  impossible.  He 
might  have  guessed  at  him  by  the  voice.  The 
heart  of  young  Jack  White  quailed  under  the 
thought.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  speak. 
Now  Jacob  knew  him.  Or,  at  least,  in  his 
mind  harboured  a  shrewd  inkling  as  to  who  it 
was.  Enough,  with  such  a  man,  to  give  the 
clue  by  which  to  worm  all  out. 

An  awful  dread  of  being  known  came  over 
him.  He  would  be  in  the  power  of  one  who 
had,  all  along,  been  doing  in  secret  everything 
that  wit  could  scheme  to  bring  about  their  ruin. 
Quick  as  thought,  he  changed  his  staff  to  his 
left  hand,  rushed  in,  no  matter  what  blow 


The  Highway  2 1 5 

might  fall,  and  struck  Jacob  on  the  brow  with 
his  right  fist. 

The  little  man  reeled  two  steps — and  fell. 
He  made  one  poor  attempt  to  rise,  but  the 
young  Jack  White  raised  his  stick  and  hit 
him  on  the  head.  At  once,  he  dropped  back 
stunned  and  lay  in  the  road  quite  still. 

There  was  but  one  way  now  to  make  all  safe. 
To  waste  no  time  in  getting  the  money;  to 
hasten  back  to  Ursula;  then  to  go  straight  to 
some  neighbour's  house  to  sit  an  hour  with  a 
pipe  and  a  glass.  Later  on  let  Ursula  raise  a 
cry  that  her  father  was  lost.  Jacob  could  never 
be  sure  enough  to  swear  to  him  upon  oath. 
Jack  White's  time  could  all  be  accounted  for, 
let  Jacob  hereafter  say  what  he  may. 

This  plan  quickly  passed  through  Jack's 
brain.  He  knelt  and  bent  over  the  outstretched 
body  before  him,  searching  pocket  after  pocket, 
and  turning  it,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the 
other,  the  better  to  do  as  he  would.  How  the 
man  bled,  to  be  sure !  Jacob  Handsford,  so  far 
as  he  could  see,  had  not  changed  a  stitch  to  go 
into  the  town.  He  had  only  taken  off  his  long 
smock,  and  wore  the  everyday  clothes  in  which 
he  was  wont  to  work  about  his  farm.  The 


2i 6  A  Tangled  Web 

breeches  and  hose,  the  long  jacket  with  buttons 
close  together  down  before,  and  the  narrow, 
strap  with  a  broad  buckle  around  his  waist. 
But  nowhere  was  any  money  to  be  found. 
Nothing,  that  is  to  say,  but  a  silver  groat  and  a 
pennypiece  in  the  pocket  of  the  right-hand  side. 
That  he  put  back  and  left  there.  It  was  no 
good.  Besides,  this  not  Ursula's  money,  and 
young  Jack  White  was  not  a  thief. 

So  all  their  trouble  had  been  taken  in  vain. 
He  must  trudge  back  to  Ursula  from  a  fool's 
errand,  wet  through  and  suspected  for  his 
pains.  And  Jacob  had  got  a  cracked  crown 
that  would  last  him  a  pretty  while.  She  might 
have  him  a  sick  man  on  her  hands  for  a  full 
month  or  more.  That  was  all  the  good  that 
had  come  of  their  fine  plot. 

Then  a  sudden  gladness,  a  sense  of  safety, 
came  over  him.  Whether  Jacob  knew  him  or 
not  was  of  very  little  account.  Since  there 
was  no  money  there  was  no  robbery,  and  to 
knock  a  man  down,  even  if  it  could  be  proved, 
was  a  small  matter  indeed.  Why,  if  every- 
thing were  known  right  out  as  it  now  stood, 
every  soul  in  Bratton  would  be  ready  to  swear 
that  it  only  served  little  Jakey  well-right  after 


The  Highway  217 

all  he  had  done.  Folk  would  laugh  at  the 
thought  of  it.  And  he  would  sooner  fly  than 
show  his  nose  in  court  to  have  Ursula's  money 
talked  about.  He  would  rather  pay  up  than 
that.  Very  likely  it  was  all  for  the  best  as  it 
was. 

Yet  Jacob  lay  strangely  still.  Not  a  sound, 
nor  a  sigh,  move  him  about  as  much  as  you 
would.  Surely  he  was  not  much  hurt — surely 
he  could  not  be 

With  nimble  ringers,  Jack  undid  the  buttons 
and  thrust  his  hand  within  the  jacket  to  feel. 

Hidden  close  against  the  man's  heart  lay  a 
soft,  leathern  bag,  spread  flat,  and  hung  around 
the  neck  by  a  string.  He  broke  away  the  knot 
and  dragged  it  out.  It  was  heavy,  and  the 
coins  grated  and  clinked  together  as  he  held  it 
up.  So  there  was  Ursula's  money  after  all — 
the  money  that  was  going  to  turn  them  out. 
He  gave  a  short,  grim  laugh,  very  much  as 
Jacob  might  have  done,  himself,  when  some- 
body was  outwitted  whom  he  loved  none  too 
well.  Ursula  would  have  her  rights  then,  and 
be  even  with  the  abomination  old  skinflint  after 
all. 

Then  the  misgiving  came  back. 

15 


2i 8  A  Tangled  Web 

Again  his  fingers  stole  underneath  the  open 
coat. 

Not  a  throb — not  a  flutter  was  there.  Not 
the  slightest  rise  or  fall  of  breathing,  nor  any 
movement  or  sign  of  life. 

For  a  minute,  Jack  White  knelt  terror- 
stricken — the  bag  of  gold  in  one  hand,  the 
other  pressed  upon  the  dead  man's  breast. 

Slowly  the  whole  truth  came  home  to  him. 

It  was  the  father  of  Ursula  whom  he  had 
killed. 


The  Wayfarer  219 


THE  WAYFARER 

Shuddering  with  horror  and  bewilderment, 
Jack  White  slowly  rose  to  his  feet.  Dazed  and 
overwhelmed  with  awe,  he  stood  there  trem- 
bling, almost  touching  the  dead  man  and  with- 
out strength  to  stir. 

He  grasped  all  that  had  happened.  His 
mind  saw  clearly  what  he  had  done.  But  his 
brain  could  not  help  him.  His  forehead,  sweat- 
ing from  every  pore,  was  throbbing  fit  to  burst. 
He  stood  as  one  in  a  nightmare,  shivering, 
spellbound,  and  unable  to  move. 

Slowly  a  fear  for  his  own  safety  crept  over 
him. 

How  should  he  act?  Where  could  he  go? 
What  was  he  to  do  ? 

If  he  had  done  it  secretly,  of  himself,  and 
Ursula  had  known  nothing,  it  would  have  been 
very  easy  to  hide  away  the  body  and  leave  no 
clue.  Nobody  would  dream  that  one  of  the 


22O  A  Tangled  Web 

Whites,  hard  up  though  they  might  be,  would 
go  upon  the  road  to  rob.  But  what  of  Ursula  ? 
She  had  never  thought  of  harm.  Only  to  get 
what  was  her  own.  "He'll  be  nothing  the 
zvorse. — You'll  have  no  call  to  hurt  un."  Those 
were  her  very  words.  And  she  was  waiting 
still,  all  on  edge  for  him  to  come  with  the 
money  and  tell  what  had  fallen  out. 

He  could  never  face  her  to  tell  her  this. 

At  the  thought  of  it  he  was  beside  himself. 
Better  to  take  the  money  and  run.  There  was 
all  night  through  to  get  away.  Say  now — it 
might  be  hard  upon  nine.  Dawn  would  break 
and  folk  begin  to  move  at  five.  That  gave 
eight  hours.  Thirty  mile  he  could  make  and 
then  hide  until  dark.  Or  get  to  Bristol  and 
creep  away  aboard  some  ship.  Or  pay  his 
passage.  Though  that  must  mean  time  and 
talk  in  open  day.  Folk  would  see  him  and 
take  note.  And  the  news  of  the  murder  could 
not  be  far  behind  his  heels.  For  he  would  be 
missed.  In  an  hour  or  two,  at  most,  his 
mother,  at  her  wits'  end,  would  run  and  rouse 
the  neighbours  from  their  beds.  And  Jacob 
too  must  be  lost — for  what  could  Ursie  do 
when  no  one  came? — ay,  and  looked  for  on 


The  Wayfarer  221 

the  Wincanton  road — and  found.  And  then, 
even  mayhap  before  midnight,  horsemen  would 
go  galloping  to  every  town  within  ten  miles  to 
raise  the  hue  and  cry.  They  would  call  him 
by  name — tell  of  his  age,  his  height,  his  colour 
— ay,  and  the  very  stuff  of  every  stitch  of  his 
clothing.  He  could  see  them — hear  them — 
already.  The  constables  and  the  well-to-do, 
riding  and  blowing  their  horns,  gathering  in 
noise  and  number  in  every  village  all  along  the 
road — and  the  lesser  folk  running  a-foot,  eager 
as  hounds  on  a  fresh  scent. 

No,  no.  To  run  was  little  better  than  to  tell 
everything  at  once.  The  whole  country  would 
be  up,  and  he,  driven  to  earth  before  another 
sundown.  Then,  what  good  could  it  be  to 
plead  or  talk  of  innocence. 

He  stooped  down  again.  Jacob,  mayhap, 
might  not  be  dead  after  all — but  only  stunned. 
Well  enough  he  knew  better,  yet  the  mere  hope 
for  a  moment  brought  him  calm.  He  bent 
quite  close,  his  cheek  near  to  the  lifeless  lips, 
and  listened,  holding  his  breath  the  while.  He 
lifted  the  head.  The  hair  was  matted,  wet — 
and  warm. 

His  ear  caught  a  sound  that  made  him  start. 


222  A  Tangled  Web 

Somebody  was  coming  up  the  road.  He 
turned  and  hearkened.  Just  as  when  Jacob 
came,  against  the  rough  stones  thrown  down 
to  harden  the  way,  there  struck  a  hurrying 
footfall  drawing  rapidly  towards  him. 

In  his  excitement,  he  had  heard  nothing — 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  horror  he  had  done. 
Unbeknown  the  wayfarer  had  drawn  quite  near 
— was  almost  upon  him.  There  could  be,  as 
it  seemed,  but  one  minute  and  all  must  be  found 
out.  He  sprang  up.  His  thought  was  to  get 
away  into  the  fields  and  then  creep  home  un- 
seen. He  seemed  to  hear  cries  of  "murder" 
ringing  through  the  quiet  night  as  the  traveller 
ran  to  the  nearest  house  to  give  the  alarm.  He 
stopped.  No.  It  was  nothing — nothing  but 
a  wild  frenzy  of  his  heated  brain.  The  dark- 
ness was  quite  still.  All  but  the  steps — louder 
and  clearer  as  they  came  beating  on — nearer  by 
a  stride  at  every  beat. 

Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  He  caught 
up  the  dead,  limp  body  in  his  arms,  and,  stag- 
gering off  the  stoned  road,  on  to  the  sward,  laid 
it  down  behind  the  trees. 

Then  again  he  stood  and  listened.  All 
sound  of  steps  had  ceased.  There  was  no- 


The  Wayfarer  223 

body  about ;  no  other  noise  but  the  howling  of 
the  wind  and  pattering  of  the  rain.  Yet  what 
was  that — less  than  a  score  of  yards  away — 
there,  where  the  black-thorn  tree  stood  higher 
than  the  rest  ?  The  wayfarer  must  have  heard 
something  astir,  for  he  was  standing  still. 
Against  the  deep  gloom  of  the  hedgerow,  on 
the  other  side,  his  dim  figure  could  plainly 
enough  be  made  out. 

A  screech  owl,  on  its  silent  wings,  came 
sweeping  low,  just  over  the  hill-top.  It 
wheeled  around  the  trees,  only  a  few  feet  above 
Jack's  head — and  hissed,  and  swooped,  as  if  to 
fly  in  his  very  face.  Then  on  it  went,  with 
hideous  screams,  as  if  it  saw  and  understood. 
To  hear  it  made  the  blood  turn  cold  in  his  veins. 
For  the  white  owls  that  live  in  graveyards  al- 
ways knew  and  came,  even  to  the  window-pane, 
where  there  was  death  within.  So  Bratton 
people  said,  and  had  known  it  true  many  a  time. 

But  at  the  noise  the  traveller  took  heart. 
Like  enough  it  was  but  the  bird  he  had  heard 
before.  Stealthily,  he  crept  on  a  few  steps — 
then  stood  again  in  doubt — then  slowly  walked 
close  opposite  the  trees,  and  stopped,  and 
peered  into  the  darker  night  under  the  branches. 


224  A  Tangled  Web 

It  seemed  to  Jack  that  the  man  was  staring 
openly  upon  his  crime. 

But  presently,  as  all  was  still,  the.  stranger, 
growing  more  content,  started  again  upon  his 
way,  and,  gaining  courage  as  he  got  free  of  this 
dark  spot,  hurried  on  as  at  first,  making  the 
best  of  his  way  along  the  road. 


An  Hiding  Place  225 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  HIDING  PLACE 

Jack  White  breathed  again,  as  one  to  whom 
a  respite  had  been  granted. 

He  stood  quite  still  until  the  distant  footsteps 
died  away  beyond  all  reach  of  hearing,  and  the 
night,  again  clouding  over,  grew  dark  and 
lonely  as  at  first. 

His  brain  was  in  a  ferment,  but  all  thoughts 
of  flight  had  fled.  His  fears  began  to  shape 
themselves  in  other  forms.  The  passing  of 
this  man  along  the  road  left  him  panic- 
stricken  and  with  no  power  to  weigh  the  hasty 
impulses  that  came  rushing  pell-mell  through 
his  mind.  All  that  his  terror  could  clearly  see 
was  the  village  upon  one  hand  and,  in  the  valley 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  the  crowded  houses 
of  the  market  town.  This  highway  became  a 
busy  thoroughfare.  Folk  might  throng  in 
scores  both  ways  at  early  morn.  He  must  be 
quick.  He  must  hide  what  he  had  done.  His 


226  A  Tangled  Web 

life  lay  upon  that  chance.  Anywhere,  any- 
where, just  to  get  time,  if  only  an  hour  or  two, 
before  the  crime  was  brought  to  light.  Or  if 
it  might  be  days — there  must  be  gain  in  that. 
There  was  a  man  lost  out  of  Bratton,  once,  and 
never  heard  of  since.  At  the  time,  people 
talked  of  foul  play.  But  now,  he  had  made 
away  with  himself — so  they  said.  Why  might 
not  Jacob  be  put  out  of  all  sight,  never  to  be 
found  ?  But  Ursula !  Could  Ursie  be  brought 
to  think  he  had  not  fallen  in  with  her  father? 
A  pattering  rain  came  pelting  down,  drenching 
him  through  and  through.  So  much  the  better 
if  it  poured  all  night.  Not  even  a  dog  would 
be  out  of  doors ;  and  the  noise  and  clatter  of  it 
drowned  every  other  sound.  There  was  blood 
upon  the  road — it  would  wash  the  stones  white 
and  clean.  Ay,  and  on  the  sod,  too — the  wet 
would  soak  it  in.  Everything  would  be  hidden 
and  his  guilt  never  brought  home. 

But  where? 

The  gully  against  Winterhays,  at  its  deepest, 
was  twelve  feet  down  or  more,  overgrown 
above  with  gorse  and  briars  so  thick  that  even 
a  spaniel  dog  could  scarcely  push  between  the 
thorns  his  yelping  way.  That  was  the  place. 


An  Hiding  Place  227 

At  the  bottom,  water  had  cut  out  a  narrow  rift 
more  secret  than  a  grave.  Nobody  would  ever 
look  there.  Nobody  had  the  right  but  himself 
on  one  side  and — and  Jacob. 

He  shuddered.  It  was  so  hard  to  under- 
stand that  Jacob  Handsford  lay  there  killed. 

Hide  it — hide  it  away.  Out  of  sight  of  to- 
morrow morning  and  the  eyes  of  men.  At  the 
thought  of  this  place  he  was  in  a  fever  to  get 
it  done.  Ay,  and  then,  at  daybreak,  or  the 
first  fitting  time,  carry  a  shovel  by  stealth,  creep 
up  through  the  hollow  from  below,  scoop  a  hole 
in  the  bank — or,  better  still,  dig  deep  under  the 
gully  bed — and  bury  it.  Pile  stones  into  the 
hole  and  bury  it — until  doomsday — out  of  the 
light. 

He  bent  over  the  corpse,  groping  with  his 
hands  to  lift  it  up.  But  it  slipped  out  of  his 
grasp.  Not  from  the  weight,  but  it  was  so 
limp  and  awkward.  He  tried  to  carry  it  in 
his  arms,  as  when  he  lifted  it  on  to  the  wayside. 
But  it  fell  away.  In  his  haste,  he  heaved  it 
roughly  up  across  his  shoulder  and  stepped  out 
upon  the  road. 

He  got  into  the  fields  the  way  by  which  he 
had  come  and  kept  straight  on,  faster  and 


228  A  Tangled  Web 

faster  as  he  went,  now  sliding  down  the  slip- 
pery, grassy  hillside,  now  stumbling  over  a 
rough  tuft  or  stone,  so  that  he  was  forced  to 
run  to  keep  his  feet.  Yet,  in  spite  of  rain  and 
darkness,  he  safely  found  his  way  until  he 
reached  the  coombe  behind  Bratton  and  stood 
upon  the  ground  of  Winterhays  that  Jacob  had 
so  coveted  with  all  his  heart. 

He  hurried  down  to  where  the  gully  parted 
the  two  farms.  One  field  away  his  mother's 
kitchen  window  gleamed  like  a  lantern  between 
the  orchard  trees.  She  must  by  this  time  be  in 
wonder  because  he  was  not  in.  Down  at  the 
other  house,  the  door  stood  partly  open  and  a 
shaft  of  light  glowed  out,  falling  aslant  across 
the  black  faggot  pile  and  the  posts  of  the  stalls. 
Ursula  must  be  out  to  gate  watching  for  him  to 
come.  The  water,  swollen  by  the  rain,  was 
running  in  a  flood.  He  could  hear  it  moan 
and  gurgle  deep  below  the  dark  hedge  and 
overgrowth  that  lay  close  before  him  and 
blocked  the  way. 

He  stopped  a  moment,  dazed  and  breathless, 
not  quite  certain  where  he  was.  He  stood  in 
doubt  on  the  brink  of  the  gully  and  tried  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts.  How  far  had  he  come  down 


An  Hiding  Place  229 

the  hill-side  ?  Was  he  above  or  below  the  only 
gap  by  which  he  could  get  into  the  ditch? 
With  hasty  steps,  he  began  once  more  to  climb 
the  hill,  so  close  to  the  bushes  that  the  sprawl- 
ing brambles  caught  his  feet.  He  stopped 
again.  He  tried  to  peer  through  the  night,  but 
nothing  could  his  eyes  clearly  make  out — no 
break  in  the  line  of  the  hedge.  Fool !  It  was 
below.  He  was  throwing  away  time.  He 
turned  at  once  and  hurried  the  other  way.  On 
and  on  he  went,  but  no  place  could  he  find. 
The  thorns  and  bushes  everywhere  were  denser 
than  a  wood.  His  heart  failed  him.  He  must 
have  been  within  a  yard  or  so  of  the  place  be- 
fore he  turned.  He  laid  the  body  down  beside 
the  gorse.  It  was  no  good.  He  might  just  as 
well  give  up  at  once. 

There  flashed  upon  him  another  plan. 

At  the  bottom,  in  the  lowest  corner  of  the 
field,  was  an  open  shallow,  railed  off  so  that  the 
beasts  might  go  so  far  and  drink.  Of  a  night 
as  dark  as  pitch  he  could  find  that.  There  a 
man,  blind  as  a  bat,  could  go  and  push  his  way 
upwards  through  the  hollow  as  far  as  he 
would. 

His  courage  returned.     The  thing  was  as 


230  A  Tangled  Web 

good  as  done.  Even  this  moment's  pause  had 
rested  him  and  brought  him  back  his  strength. 
Again  he  lifted  to  his  back  his  ghastly  burden, 
and  went  on. 

The  opening  to  the  watering-place  was  flat, 
and  covered  in  stiff,  firm  mud.  Even  the  rain 
had  not  made  it  soft,  and  it  clogged  his  steps  so 
that  he  almost  fell  forward.  As  he  went  on, 
he  sank  into  the  mire  knee-deep.  He  was 
forced  to  lean  upon  the  rail  to  lift  himself  free 
and  climb  upon  the  gully-bank. 

Then,  as  he  paused,  his  fears,  following  close 
upon  him,  caught  him  up. 

God!  if  any  man,  chancing  to  pass  hereby, 
to-morrow,  should  see  his  track — a  track  going 
for  no  purpose  where  nobody  could  have  need 
— what  must  he  think  ?  How  he  would  look ! 
There  was  not  one  in  Bratton — no,  nor  else- 
where— but  his  eye  must  catch,  at  a  glance,  a 
sign  so  strange.  Not  a  soul  but  must  wonder, 
ay,  and  then  go  to  pry.  For  by  daylight  it  was 
easy  to  climb  around  dryshod.  There  would 
be  footprints  to  the  water's  edge,  and  then 
again  along  the  sliding  gully-bank.  Every 
hobnail  upon  the  sole — the  round  mark  of  the 
heel — left  clear  to  tell  the  tale  as  plain  as  writ- 


An  Hiding  Place  231 

ing  on  a  page.  They  would  track  him — track 
him  like  a  rabbit  in  winter  snow.  Then  every- 
thing, clear  as  noonday,  must  come  out. 

In  sudden  fright,  he  turned  about,  floun- 
dered, stumbling  and  splashing,  out  of  the  pool, 
and  stood  again  on  the  firm  grass  of  the  field, 
no  better  off  than  before. 

He  would  get  rid  of  the  body,  anywhere,  and 
go  home. 

In  the  middle  of  a  ground  next  to  his  piece 
of  new-sown  barley  was  a  pit,  deeper,  so  it  was 
said,  than  Bratton  tower  was  high — so  deep 
that  never  waggon-line  could  plumb  the  depth. 
That  was  common  talk  in  the  village.  Hap 
what  may,  he  would  cast  it  there,  and  have 
done  with  it. 

The  way  was  easy.  He  had  only  to  follow 
along  the  hedge  to  pass  through  a  gate,  at  the 
present  time  thrown  open  that  the  cattle  might 
be  free  to  wander  to  and  fro  at  will.  Even  in 
the  night  he  could  find  this  ancient  marlhole, 
by  the  tall  trees  that  grew  around.  Five  min- 
utes, and  the  thing  was  done.  All  gone,  and 
sunk,  deep  out  of  sight,  in  the  still,  black  water 
far  below,  where  the  sides  were  cut  steep  as 
walls,  and  thorns  and  ivy  grew  thick  together 


232  A  Tangled  Web 

over  the  top.  There  it  would  be  hidden  from 
all  eyes,  and  never  found. 

And  yet — in  three  days  a  drowned  man  will 
swim.  There  is  no  keeping  him  under  after 
that.  And  the  boy,  put  in  the  barley  to  scare 
rooks,  was  for  ever  and  ever  running  across  to 
climb  down  to  the  moorhen's  nest  upon  the 
gnarled  stump  on  the  water' s-edge. 

He  stood  upon  the  brink  in  doubt.  The 
black  water  seemed  to  catch  a  faint  shimmer  of 
light  even  in  the  dark  night.  They  looked 
there — he  could  remember  them  with  poles  and 
crooks — when  the  other  man  was  lost. 

What  madness  to  have  come  here  at  all — 
here  to  the  very  door  of  Winterhays.  Any  but 
a  fool  would  have  gone  far  away — back  to- 
wards Wincanton — anywhere,  furthest  from 
his  own  ground.  Why,  Jacob — lost — would 
be  looked  for  high  and  low  round  his  own 
place.  Better  to  have  left  him  on  the  road. 
Anyone  might  have  robbed  him  on  the  high- 
way. But  here 

He  could  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  across 
Three-hounds-waste,  then  by  the  lane  back  into 
the  road  again.  It  was  not  possible  to  miss  the 
way.  From  corner  to  corner  of  that  unen- 


An  Hiding  Place  233 

closed  tract  ran  a  drove,  hoof-trodden  and 
scored  with  deep  ruts.  There  were  gipsies 
there  the  day  before  yesterday,  but  gone  to-day. 
He  had  only  to  push  on  to  that  and  all  was 
straight.  No  sooner  did  this  thought  spring 
in  his  mind  than  all  his  wavering  ceased. 
Caught  and  carried  away  by  a  fresh  current  too 
powerful  to  resist,  he  hurried  on. 

The  Three-hounds-waste  lay  just  beyond  the 
piece  of  common  at  the  foot  of  Jacob  Hands- 
ford's  farm.  It  was  not  far,  and  he  was  quick- 
ly there.  The  wind,  that  swept  along  the  road 
on  the  hill-top,  came  driving  up  the  valley  be- 
hind him  with  all  its  might.  At  times,  it  was 
as  much  as  he  could  do  to  stand.  The  ground 
was  rough  and  uneven,  sometimes  wet  and 
soggy,  broken  with  stiff  tufts  of  reeds  and 
rushes,  and  then  again  in  patches  of  low  scrub 
and  last  year's  brash,  which  caught  his  feet  so 
that  at  every  step  he  stumbled.  Once  he  near- 
ly fell.  His  nerve  was  shaken.  He  was  al- 
most done,  and  his  knees  trembled  beneath  him. 
He  was  driven  to  lay  the  dead  man  on  the 
ground,  and  rest. 

He  was  upon  a  piece  of  open  turf.     As  he 

bent  down,  the  gale  blew  off  his  hat.     Dis- 
16 


234  A  Tangled  Web 

mayed  at  the  fear  of  losing  it  and  leaving  such 
tell-tale  proof  of  his  presence,  he  strode  for- 
ward, on  in  the  line  of  the  wind,  thrusting  and 
feeling  on  each  side  with  his  stick.  As  well 
search  for  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay.  He  was 
hopeless !  He  must  give  up,  and  all  was  ruined. 
It  could  not  have  gone  so  far — "not  so  far,"  he 
kept  saying  to  himself.  Yet,  with  the  words 
upon  his  lips,  he  still  pushed  on.  Then  he 
turned,  knelt  upon  the  grass,  and  groped  with 
his  hands.  At  last,  by  sheer  luck,  his  fingers 
came  upon  the  soft  cloth,  caught  and  hanging 
against  a  small  thorn  bush.  He  seized  it,  set 
it  on  his  head,  and  stood  upright. 

This  brief  respite  from  the  weight  had  given 
him  ease.  His  limbs  were  strong  again,  and 
he,  burning  with  eagerness  to  go  forward, 
tiirned  hastily  back  towards  the  place  where, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  he  had  laid  the  body  down. 

A  few  steps  and  he  found  himself  off  the 
grass,  trampling  once  more  against  the  rushes 
and  rough  herbage.  He  had  got  wrong.  He 
stood  puzzled,  staring  into  the  night,  trying  to 
make  out  where  he  was.  But  the  waste  around 
was  one  unbroken  darkness.  Neither  bush  nor 
bog  nor  brash  could  he  tell,  one  from  another, 


An   Hiding  Place  235 

t 

to  give  him  any  clue.  He  must  have  borne 
round  to  the  right  when  he  rose  up.  With  this 
thought  he  pushed  hastily  to  the  left.  It  was 
no  good.  He  had  already  overstepped  the 
mark,  and  was  never  the  nearer  to  what  he 
looked  for.  Yet  it  must  be  close  at  hand.  He 
went  back — to  the  right — then  on  again — 
hither — thither — in  short,  hasty  journeys,  al- 
ways changing  his  mind.  But  everywhere  was 
wilderness,  and  his  feet  never  came  upon  a  bit 
of  sward. 

At  last,  in  very  hopelessness,  he  stopped. 
He  no  longer  knew  where  he  was.  There  was 
no  sense  in  anything  he  could  do.  He  had  lost 
it — lost  it  beyond  all  finding,  in  the  blackness 
of  night 

Then,  like  a  ghastly  vision,  the  whole  picture 
arose  before  his  mind's  eye. 

He  saw  the  corpse  of  little  Jacob  Handsford 
whom  he  had  murdered  lying  stiff  and  stark 
upon  the  open  ground,  his  face  upturned  to- 
ward the  sky,  unhidden  by  so  much  as  bush  or 
blade  in  the  broad  daylight  of  to-morrow  morn. 


236  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  VII 

BACK   TO    URSIE 

He  began  to  feel  a  craving  for  help.  The 
shifts  to  which  his  fears  had  driven  him  proved 
no  better  than  mere  foolishness,  and  worse. 
Now  no  more  was  to  be  done,  he  found  himself 
bereft  of  all  purpose  and  power  to  think.  His 
frenzy  was  over.  He  was  calm — with  the  dul- 
ness  of  a  feeble  will  worn  out  and  benumbed. 

He  stood  motionless  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
and  looked  towards  Bratton. 

Dotted  down  the  hillside,  the  cottage  win- 
dows were  still  wide  awake.  After  all,  it  could 
not  be  late  or  the  villagers  would  be  a-bed. 
Doubtless,  Jacob  had  come  home  upon  his  time. 
Only  excitement  and  restlessness  had  made  the 
waiting  seem  so  long.  Since  then,  not  a  mo- 
ment had  been  lost.  From  road  to  gully  was 
but  a  ground  or  two,  with  the  pit  hard  by. 
Now,  if  it  were  but  daylight,  he  would  be  but  a 


Back  to  Ursie  237 

quarter  of  an  hour  from  home.  The  dread  of 
being  missed  and  asked  for  had  made  him  be- 
lieve the  thing  he  feared.  Come  to  reckon  out 
the  hour  by  where  he  had  been,  he  could  be  no 
such  terrible  while  behind;  and  Ursie,  beyond 
question,  was  waiting  still,  out  of  all  patience 
to  know  how  things  had  gone,  but  yet  with  no 
great  wonder  all  the  same. 

He  must  go  back  to  Ursie,  come  what  may. 

He  had  need  of  her.  For  months  he  had 
leant  upon  her,  been  at  her  beck  and  call,  and 
wanted  nothing  better  than  to  carry  out  all  she 
said.  She  found  the  nimbler  wit  that  was 
wanted  to  his  courage  and  strength.  Ay,  only 
Ursie  in  all  the  world  could  tell  him  what  to  do 
now  that  their  fine  plan  had  gone  awry. 

If  she  would! 

He  must  get  back  to  her  whether  she  would 
or  no. 

Yes,  Ursie  would  tell  him  how  best  to  act. 
Whether  to  come  here  again  at  early  daybreak, 
before  folk  were  about,  or  to  keep  out  of  the 
way.  For  Ursie  loved  him.  She  would  not 
change.  How  she  loved  him  last  night  when 
all  was  settled,  after  they  had  looked  into  the 
book.  And  she  hated  her  father.  Many  a 


238  A  Tangled  Web 

time,  in  her  anger,  had  she  wished  outright  that 
he  were  dead  and  in  his  grave.  And  meant  it, 
too.  Ursie  would  never  change  to  him  in  her 
heart  because  the  miserly  old  man  had  met  with 
his  end.  It  was  Ursie  who  had  thought  out 
the  plan.  And  they  meant  no  harm.  He  must 
tell  her  all,  come  what  may.  Go  and  tell  her 
at  once,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  take 
counsel  how  to  keep  things  safe. 

Yet  he  did  not  move. 

Ursie,  when  she  heard,  would  turn  from  him 
— never  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  him  again. 
That  was  but  nature.  It  was  well  enough  to 
wish  her  father  dead.  Such  words  were  only 
breath  and  nothing  worth.  She  must  stand 
aghast  at  the  horror  of  it.  Ursie !  Ursie !  In 
the  depths  of  his  heart  he  called  her  by  name,  as 
if  she  could  hear.  If  she  broke  away  from  him 
for  this,  though  it  were  hidden  until  doomsday, 
he  would  rather  tell  all  out  and  hang  for  it  than 
live.  Yes,  he  must  go  back  to  her,  come  what 
may.  She  was  looking  for  him.  It  was  Ursie 
who  had  thought  it  all  out.  She  would  bear 
that  in  mind.  She  must  know,  anyway — if 
not  to-night,  to-morrow.  And  they  were  in  it 
together.  They  were  one  already,  like  man 


Back  to  Ursie  239 

and  wife.  Ursie  would  hold  to  him  and  tell 
him  what  to  do. 

Leaning  forward  against  the  weather,  he  be- 
gan to  beat  his  way  toward  the  village. 

Having  once  started,  on  he  trudged,  no 
longer  in  haste,  but  never  wavering  in  intent. 
He  thought  no  more  of  what  he  was  about, 
feared  no  risk,  had  no  dread  of  to-morrow,  but 
kept  plodding  on  and  on,  head  bent,  like  a 
worn-out  horse  on  his  last  mile,  or  a  lost  hound 
on  his  homeward  way.  Keeping  always  to  the 
fields,  he  came  by  the  back  of  Jacob  Hands- 
ford's  barn,  and  stopped  by  the  wall  to  peer 
over  into  the  barton. 

The  house  was  shut.  This  struck  him  as 
strange.  He  had  thought  to  see  Ursie,  restless 
with  long  waiting,  running  forward  at  the  first 
sound  out  of  the  open  dairy-door.  But  the 
farm  looked,  as  it  might  be,  locked  up  for  the 
night.  Could  Ursie,  under  a  strain  of  anxiety 
drawn  out  beyond  the  utmost  stretch,  have 
gone  abroad  to  search  for  him  and  find  out  why 
he  stayed  so  long?  It  was  not  that.  More 
likely,  when  the  storm  came  down  so  wild,  she 
dared  not  let  the  little  maid  bide  out  to  gate. 
She  must  have  called  Hannah  in,  or  in  five  min- 


240  A  Tangled  Web 

utes  the  child  would  have  been  drenched  to  the 
skin.  Then,  she  must  stay  indoors  herself,  as 
if  nothing  were  happening  out  of  the  way,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  to  wonder  why  the  master  could 
be  so  late.  Ursie  would  be  on  the  alert  to  hear 
him  come  inside. 

He  went  quietly  across  the  court,  gently 
lifted  the  latch,  and  the  door  yielded  under 
pressure  of  his  hand.  The  milk-house  was 
dark  and  empty.  He  stood  and  listened.  There 
was  no  one  moving,  and  his  ear  could  not 
catch  a  sound. 

He  stepped  inside  and,  feeling  his  way  past 
the  cheese-tub,  came  into  the  passage  unper- 
ceived  and  without  meeting  a  soul.  At  the 
other  end,  beyond  the  flight  of  stairs,  the 
kitchen  door  stood  open.  Within,  a  blazing 
fire  wras  roaring  up  the  chimney  back,  and  the 
flames  lit  up  the  place  so  that  he  could  now  see 
well  where  he  was  going. 

Amazed  to  find  the  house  empty,  for  so  it 
seemed,  he  stood  a  moment  in  doubt.  If  Ursie 
had  gone  out,  Hannah  might  be  sitting  there 
alone.  He  crept  on  a  few  steps,  steadying 
himself  with  a  hand  upon  the  banister  to  make 
no  noise.  Suddenly  he  stopped — clutched  the 


Back  to  Ursie  241 

slanting  staircase,  and  stared  into  the  kitchen, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot  in  astonishment 
and  fear. 

Through  the  frame  of  the  open  doorway  he 
could  see  the  glowing  hearth. 

In  front  of  the  fire,  but  towards  the  further 
side,  in  an  oak  chair  of  which  the  legs  and  arms 
glistened  in  the  light,  sat  Jacob  Handsford. 
The  little  man  was  merry  to-night.  He  was 
smiling,  and  rubbing  his  hands.  For  once  he 
had  piled  up  sticks  and  logs  without  stint,  and 
he  leaned  over  toward  the  warmth  as  if  unwill- 
ing to  waste  a  ray  of  it.  His  worsted  hose 
were  damp  and  steaming  with  the  heat.  He 
rocked  slightly  to  and  fro.  Then  he  bent 
further  forward  and  rubbed  his  scorching  knees 
with  his  lean  hands.  And  he  chuckled,  not 
loud,  but  deep  down  in  his  chest,  and  half 
closed  his  little  eyes  in  enjoyment  of  his  inward 
satisfaction  and  delight. 

Ah !  Jacob  had  done  well.  He  had  carried 
everything  through  that  night,  just  as  he 
wished. 


242  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  VIII 
URSIE'S    COUNSEL 

"Go  back.  He'll  catch  'ee.  How  did  'ee 
hap  to  miss  un  ?" 

It  was  Ursula,  upon  the  stairs,  speaking  in 
a  low  whisper  close  above  his  ear. 

"Go  back,"  she  said  again,  scarcely  more 
than  moving  her  lips  to  shape  the  words,  as  she 
waved  him  away  with  her  hand  and  pointed 
towards  the  milk-house  door. 

He  obeyed  like  a  frightened  child.  Without 
noise,  she  followed  close  at  his  heels,  and  they 
crept  into  the  dairy  out  of  all  danger  of  being 
found. 

"How  was  it — eh?  Did  he  chance  to  come 
home  some  other  way ?  Or  what?" 

She  had  waited  long,  and  in  her  impatience 
to  know  how  things  had  fallen  out,  her  voice 
was  sharp  and  quick.  The  candle  she  carried 
in  her  left  hand  gave  but  a  poor  light;  and, 
more  than  that,  so  bitter  was  her  disappoint- 
ment at  the  failure  of  their  plan  that  she  had 
no  eyes  to  note  how  his  limbs  shook,  or  to  see 
the  look  of  abject  terror  upon  his  face. 


Ursie's  Counsel  243 

"I— I  don't  know,  Ursie." 

He  could  stammer  out  no  more.  His 
tongue  stuck  fast  and  words  failed. 

"  'Twur  our  last  an'  only  chance,"  she  cried 
in  tones  of  reproach,  without  heeding  him. 
Then  in  her  hopelessness  she  utterly  broke 
down.  She  burst  into  sobs,  and  for  a  while  she 
could  not  speak.  At  last  with  her  arm  she 
brushed  the  tears  from  her  cheeks  and  went  on. 
"There !  Winterhays  is  gone  now,  so  sure  as 
the  light.  Your  poor  mother  'ull  be  turned 
out.  An'  I  be  to  blame  for  it.  I  do  know  I  be. 
'Tis  no  good.  'T'ull  be  put  off  an'  put  off — first 
one  tale,  then  another.  I  shall  never  see  the 
colour  o'  my  own  money  zo  long  as  he's  alive." 

Only  the  one  word — money — sounded  clear 
through  the  disorder  of  young  Jack's  mind. 
He  could  not  speak.  He  was  too  shaken  and 
helpless  to  find  words.  From  his  pocket  he 
drew  the  leathern  bag  and  held  it  out  to  her. 

"Then  you  did  meet  wi'  un,  Jack?  Gie  it 
here.  But  how  was  it?  How  could  he  come 
home  so  glad?  Oh,  Jack!" 

As  she  eagerly  stretched  out  her  hand  to  lay 
hold  of  her  own  money  that  she  had  wanted 
for  so  long,  for  the  first  time  she  looked  full  at 


244  A  Tangled  Web' 

him.  His  face  frightened  her ;  it  was  so  white 
and  changed.  Her  sudden  gladness  at  sight  of 
the  bag  gave  way  to  fear.  She  did  not  take  it; 
but  drew  back. 

"What  is  it,  Jack  ?  Why  do  'ee  stare  so  wild 
as  if  you  had  a-zeed  a  ghost  ?  Oh,  Jack !  Did 
he  know  'ee,  Jack  ?  Did  he  find  'ee  out  under 
all?  An'  is  that  why  he've  a-comed  home  so 
well  pleased?  For  all  'tis  my  own  money,  he 
can  bring  'ee  to  the  gallows,  Jack.  Oh,  Jack ! 
He  can  bring  'ee  to  the  gallows,  Jack." 

As  she  spoke  out  of  love  for  him,  she  stepped 
forward  and  threw  her  arm  around  his  neck. 
Yet  at  once  she  let  go  again. 

"Take  it  off,"  she  said  to  him.  "Why,  you 
be  soaking  drough  and  drough  wi'  the  rain." 

She  made  as  if  to  wipe  her  hand  upon  her 
apron,  for  it  was  dripping  wet.  So  doing,  she 
held  it  by  the  light,  and  lo !  she  saw  her  fingers, 
palm,  and  wrist,  almost  to  the  elbow,  were 
coloured  crimson  red. 

She  shuddered,  for  the  sight  of  it  made  her 
heart  faint  and  sick. 

"  Tis  blood !"  she  gasped. 

But  at  once  her  horror  was  overcome  by  the 
fear  that  Jack  was  badly  hurt. 


Ursie's  Counsel  245 

"You  mus'  be  half  dead !"  she  cried,  catching 
hold  of  him  again.  "Where  is  it?  How 
could  he  sar  'ee  zo  ?  Did  he  carr'  anything  in 
the  han'  o'  un,  an'  wound  'ee  wi'  it,  or  what? 
Pull  off  the  old  coat,  Jack.  Let  me  zee  for  my- 
zelf."  And  she  nimbly  began  to  unfasten  the 
buttons  before  the  words  were  out  of  her 
mouth. 

But  he  held  her  hand.  His  wits,  scattered 
by  that  glimpse  of  Jacob  sitting  by  the  hearth, 
began  to  come  home,  and  he  found  a  tongue. 

"Let  be,  Ursie,"  he  told  her ;  "I  be  sound  in 
body,  but  I've  a-killed  un!  I've  a-killed  un, 
Ursie,  so  sure  as  God's  above !  I  never  went  to 
do  it;  I  never  had  such  thought  or  meaning; 
but  I  heard  his  steps,  an'  saw  un,  too,  as  he 
traipsed  along  the  road.  An'  I  went  for  to 
stop  un,  but  he  turned  an'  stood  up  for  hiszelf, 
an'  I  knocked  un  down  an'  killed  un,  Ursie! 
An' — an'  found  the  money  hid  inzide  his  shirt. 
An'  I  tried  to  hide  the  body,  Ursie ;  an'  when  I 
crope  back  to  tell  'ee — for  tell  'ee  I  wur  bound 
to — he  wur  there,  there  afore  his  own  fire. 
Ursie — Ursie — I  thought  he  had  a-comed  back 
there — the  ghost  o'  un — to  trouble  me!" 

He  shivered.     Even  now  he  could  not  be- 


246  A  Tangled  Web 

lieve  that  Jacob  Handsford  was  alive  and  well. 
He  was  so  shaken  that  he  almost  cried. 

"You've  a-killed  another,"  she  sobbed,  trem- 
bling like  a  reed.  "Mus'  be  somebody  here- 
about— somebody  wi'  money,  too,  on  his  way 
home  from  the  same  market,  like  enough.  We 
shall  hear,  to-morrow,  that  he's  a-missed. 
There'll  be  a  outcry — an'  search  a-made. 
.Where  have  'ee  put  it,  Jack  ?" 

"  Tis  out — out  on  Dree-hounds-waste,"  he 
faltered;  "cold  and  stiff  by  this  time.  An' 
open  for  all  to  zee." 

They  stood  in  silence,  staring  blankly  at  each 
other,  dumbfounded  in  the  presence  of  the  aw- 
ful terror  which  had  overtaken  them.  He  still 
held  the  unopened  bag  of  money  in  his  hand, 
but  all  thought  of  that  had  passed  out  of  his 
mind. 

Presently  they  heard  a  noise  of  Jacob  Hands- 
ford  moving  about  the  house.  By  this  time, 
doubtless,  he  was  dry  and  warm.  He  had  be- 
come his  old  self  again,  for  he  was  setting  back 
the  logs  and  spuddling  abroad  the  ashes  ready 
for  bed. 

"I  had  better  go  afore  he  do  call,"  began  the 
girl,  aroused  by  the  sound. 


Ursie's  Counsel  247 

She  stepped  forward  and  opened  the  outside 
door. 

"Quick,  Jack.  Run  across  and  get  into  barn. 
Take  off  the  old  coat,  an'  your  own  clothes  un- 
derneath be  clean.  Put  it  out  o'  the  way,  Jack, 
behind  the  strow.  Run  home — do  as  you 
would.  Zay  you've  a-bin  wi'  me.  And  when 
all  is  still,  come  back  again.  I'll  slip  out  to  'ee, 
an'  we'll  think  what  to  do,  an'  hide  away  every 
sign." 

Acting  on  her  own  counsel,  as  she  spoke  she 
laid  the  candle  on  the  floor,  followed  him  as  far 
as  the  pump,  washed  away  the  stain,  and  wiped 
her  arm  dry  in  the  dark  skirt  of  her  frock. 
Then,  with  a  hasty  wave  of  her  hand,  she  sent 
him  away  at  once. 


It  was  drawing  near  midnight  when  next 
they  met.  They  dared  not  strike  a  light.  They 
stood  a  yard  apart  in  the  darkness  on  the  level 
threshing-floor,  and  talked.  There  were  no 
endearments  now.  They  did  not  touch  each 
other.  There  were  no  gestures,  or,  if  so,  noth- 
ing could  be  seen;  only  two  voices,  very  low 
and  secret,  and  Jack  was  hoarse. 


248  A  Tangled  Web 

Ursula  spoke  very  quickly.  She  had  thought 
it  out. 

"Had  anybeddy  a-bin  into  Winterhays  who 
could  know  you  were  out  ?"  she  asked. 

"No.  An'  my  mother  took  it  wi'out  telling 
that  I  wur  wi'  you." 

"There's  nobeddy  'ull  think  upon  'ee,  Jack, 
if  you  do  but  keep  a  good  face." 

"I  can  never  bide  to  hear  tell  o'  it  when  'tis 
found  out." 

"You  mus'.  'Tis  all  in  your  own  hands. 
You  mus'  go  about  your  work.  I've  a-thought 
what  you  had  best  do.  Persuade  your  mother 
to  zell  stock.  Zay  you  must  go  to  fair  an'  zell 
to  pay  the  rent.  'T'ull  be  talked  o'  then,  how 
short  the  Whites  be.  'Tis  in  everybeddy's 
mouth  now.  If  you  should  use  this  you've  a- 
tookt,  't'ull  raise  a  doubt.  Don't  'ee  show  a 
penny  o'  it.  Where  is  it,  Jack  ?  Gie  it  to  me 
to  keep.  Don't  'ee  have  in  your  house  even." 

"  'Tis  here,  Ursie." 

"Where?" 

"Here." 

She  felt  for  his  hand  and  took  the  bag.  He 
was  glad  to  be  quit  of  it. 

"I'll  hide  it  away.    I'll  drow  it  into  the  pit. 


Ursie's  Counsel  249 

I  sim,  if  we  did  use  it,  't'ud  draw  down  a  curse 
an'  a  judgment  'pon  us.  I  sim,  if  we  were  a- 
starving,  I  could  never  swallow  a  mouthful  o' 
victuals  it  bought.  If  'twere  but  a  crust  o' 
bread,  't'ud  turn  an'  turn  in  the  mouth  o'  me, 
an'  stick  in  my  droat  an'  choke  me." 

"Put  it  out  o'  the  way — right  out  o'  the  way, 
Ursie." 

His  voice  quavered  with  anxiety  to  have  it 
gone.  He  was  more  eager  than  she  to  get  no 
good  of  it. 

"You  mus'  zell  at  Wincanton  fair." 

"That's  Easter  Tuesday.  Will  Mother  bring 
her  mind  to  gie  consent  zo  zoon,  do  'ee  think  ?" 

"She  mus'.     There's  no  way  else." 

"  'Tis  but  in  two  days'  time." 

"Go  there,  Jack.  Take  the  beasts  there. 
I'll  come  to-morrow  an'  zay  the  same." 

"  "Full  be  all  voun'  out  by  then,  Ursie.  'T'ull 
be  in  everybeddy's  mouth,  I  tell  'ee,  at  such  a 
time  and  place,"  he  moaned. 

"You've  only  a-got  to  act  like  yourzelf." 

"They'll  vlock  round  me  like  vlies  to  learn 
the  rights  o'  it,  I  living  so  near  the  place." 

"You  mus'  know  just  zo  rnuch  an'  zo  little  as 
the  rest." 


250  A  Tangled  Web 

"They'll  look.  They'll  look,  Ursie,  to  zee 
me  zo  mum." 

"They'll  think  'tis  the  thought  o'  Winterhays 
an'  zelling  your  stock." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  but  found  no  word  to  say. 

"Why,  there's  nothing  to  point  to  'ee,"  she 
went  on,  gaining  courage  as  she  talked.  "You 
do  owe  no  man  a  grudge  an'  no  man  you.  You 
be  thought  well  o',  Jack.  They'll  cast  about  in 
the  minds  o'  'em  for  one  who  could  know  the 
man  had  money  about  un.  An'  't'ull  never  be 
found  out.  Never." 

"Could  I  do  more,  do  'ee  think  ?" 

"Nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  Keep  away 
from  the  spot.  Don't  'ee  let  your  thoughts  run 
upon  it.  When  we  be  married  an'  the  noise  o' 
it  is  a-blowed  over,  we'll  change  our  minds  an' 
go  herevrom." 

He  stepped  forward  and  caught  her  hold. 
His  weaker  spirit  clung  to  her  for  support. 

"Do  'ee  believe  what  you  do  say,  Ursie 
dear?" 

"So  true  as  God's  in  Heaven." 

"That  'full  never  be  found  out?" 

"Never." 


Ursie's  Counsel  251 

"An'  you'll  tell  me  what  to  do— an'  when  I 
do  act  foolish  ?" 

"I'll  be  up  to  Winterhays  an'  keep  about  by 
'ee  all  day  long.  'Tis  but  nat'ral  now  the  banns 
be  in." 

"I  could  keep  in  heart  then." 

"To  be  sure.  For  you  never  went  to  kill  un 
— nor  any  man.  Look  at  it  as  though  you  had 
a-brokt  his  neck  at  the  wrestling.  Would  that 
ha'  bin  your  fau't?  For  you  never  meant  it, 
Jack.  Don't  dwell  upon  it.  Look  at  it  like 
that." 

"I  will,  Ursie— but  the  coat " 

"Leave  it  all  to  me;  and  go  home  now  while 
'tis  dead  o'  night,  afore  anybeddy  is  about." 

"Oh  Ursie,  how  I  do  love  'ee,"  he  said. 

She  had  already  brought  him  to  her  way  of 
thinking  that  there  was  little  to  dread.  He 
felt  as  if  she  herself  had  drawn  him  out  of  dan- 
ger. He  was  safe  if  only  Ursula  would  tell 
him  what  to  do.  He  held  fast  to  her,  but  she 
pushed  him  aside  and  made  him  go  at  once. 

But  when  he  was  gone  she  still  waited  in  the 
barn  until,  in  the  early  morning  light,  she  could 
just  see  across  the  barton  and  make  out  the 
stalls.  The  rain  had  ceased  some  hours  ago. 


252  A  Tangled  Web 

The  storm  had  blown  itself  out  or  passed  away. 
Over  all  the  valley  and  reaching  half  way  up 
the  hills  lay  a  dense  mist,  cold  and  grey,  hiding 
everything  but  a  row  of  tall,  black  elm  tops 
that  pierced  it  half  way  up  the  slope.  The 
barn-door  cocks,  not  yet  down  from  the  cart- 
house  beams  on  which  they  roosted,  set  up  to 
crow.  There  were  five.  Their  voices  sounded 
strange.  One  was  sharp  and  shrill,  and  one, 
hoarse  and  deep ;  and  they  crowed  against  each 
other  as  if  they  knew  that  it  was  Easter-day — 
or  in  the  night  had  overheard  something  and 
would  tell  it  to  all  the  world.  Surely  they  had 
never  made  such  noise  before.  They  would 
wake  her  father  and  bring  him  down  in  fear 
that  he  was  being  robbed. 

Behind  the  house,  within  a  high  wall,  was  a 
corner  of  the  garden  whereon  no  window 
looked.  It  was  overgrown  with  weeds  and  in 
disorder,  with  fruit  trees  running  wild  and  un- 
pruned — a  waste  of  niggardliness — for  Jacob 
begrudged  the  money  to  pay  labour  and  did  not 
tend  to  it  himself.  Ursula  found  herself  a 
spade.  There,  out  of  sight,  she  dug  a  hole. 
Then  she  fetched  the  coat,  holding  it  from  her 
and  dragging  it  along  the  ground,  for  the 


Ursie's  Counsel  253 

blood,  in  places,  although  clotted,  was  still  wet, 
and  she  could  not  bear  to  look  at  it.  Then  she 
buried  it,  shovelled  back  the  earth,  and  tram- 
pled it  down.  There  were  flat  coping-stones 
close  by,  fallen  from  the  top  of  the  neglected 
wall.  She  lifted  them  up  and  laid  them  down 
upon  the  place. 

She  went  back  to  shut  up  the  barn's  door  and 
make  all  straight. 

Rats  had  gnawed  a  large  hole  upon  one  side 
of  the  threshing  floor.  It  caught  her  eye  as 
she  passed  and  into  it  she  threw  the  bag  of 
money.  Upon  the  ground  outside  lay  a  spar- 
gad,  dropped  by  the  thatcher  some  time  ago 
when  he  came  to  mend  the  roof.  She  picked  it 
up  and  pushed  the  bag  away  out  of  sight,  far 
as  the  stick  would  reach. 

It  was  no  good  to  them.  There  was  danger 
and  death  in  it  for  all  they  knew.  She  dared 
not  even  look  to  see  the  colour  of  the  coins  and 
count  how  much  there  was. 


254  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  IX 
EASTER 

The  sun  broke  through  the  bank  of  fog  and 
April  smiled  again.  Nothing  could  be  more 
sweet  and  gentle  than  that  Easter  morning 
after  the  wild  rain.  There  were  primroses  on 
all  the  banks;  and  budding  cowslips,  pale  and 
stiff  of  stem  but  not  yet  out,  lay  sprinkled  over 
the  home-field  at  Winterhays.  The  birds  were 
singing — every  one.  The  gorse  shone  yellow 
by  the  gully-side,  and  all  the  valley  and  hills 
looked  glad  and  fresh  and  green. 

But  if  the  earth  arrayed  herself  new-clad  in 
honour  of  the  opening  spring;  so,  on  this  day 
of  the  rising  again  from  the  dead,  did  all  the 
people,  too. 

For  any  soul  who  did  not  put  on  something 
new  on  Easter  Sunday  there  could  be  no  luck 
all  the  year  through.  No  matter  what,  a 
thread  or  a  tag  there  must  be.  Even  little  Han- 
nah Peach  had  kept  back  one  new  pinney  out  of 
two,  that  she  sewed  after  work  on  the  winter 


Easter  255 

evenings,  so  as  to  be  like  the  rest.  The  widow, 
short  of  money  as  she  was,  had  waited  for  full 
an  hour  down  to  stile  for  the  peddler  and 
bought  herself  a  new  lace.  Ursula  had  a  new 
bodice  and  handkercher;  and  Jack,  a  coat 
which,  as  folk  said,  would  come  in,  as  it  now 
turned  out,  just  right  for  his  wedding,  too. 

Only  Jacob  Handsford,  in  all  the  country 
round,  went  as  he  was  without  change  from 
head  to  toe.  "Ha!  there's  enough  calls  upon 
your  purse  these  days,  sure  enough,"  he 
snarled,  "wi'out  a-putting  your  money  out  o' 
pocket  afore  you  do  need."  But  he  was  angry. 
On  pain  of  paying  a  shilling  to  the  poor,  he  had 
to  go  to  church ;  and  he  knew  how  all  the  neigh- 
bours would  peep  at  him  and  then  nod  and 
smile  one  to  the  other  whilst  he  was  forced  to 
sit  still  and  listen  to  his  daughter's  banns. 

So,  when  the  bells  rang  out,  up  and  down  the 
street  from  every  farm  and  all  the  cottage 
doors,  young  and  old  came  out  as  gay  as  birds 
new-feathered  after  a  moult.  All  along  the 
road,  in  twos  and  threes,  they  sauntered ;  slowly 
up  the  tall  flight  of  stonen  steps  leading  to  the 
gravel  pathway  between  the  graves.  All  was 
so  bright  this  morn  of  Easter-day  that  a  sun- 


256  A  Tangled  Web 

light  of  golden  hope  shone  on  the  headstones 
and  the  grey,  flat  tombs.  It  gladdened  even 
the  grassless,  upturned  earth  that  marked  the 
spot  of  last  year's  new-made  sepulchre;  and, 
where  fresh  verdure  covered  ancient  mounds 
and  raindrops  hung  like  tears  undried  on  every 
blade,  it  lit  them  into  gems. 

The  folk  stood  round  the  porch  and  talked. 
They  were  merry,  and  everybody  was  there; 
the  men  with  tutties  in  their  buttonholes, 
bunches  of  yellow  daffodils  or  primroses  and 
sweet  violets  both  purple  and  white — and  the 
women  holding  nosegays  in  their  hands,  such 
garden  flowers  as  they  could  get  at  the  time  of 
year,  and  a  slip  or  two  of  sweet-smelling  herb, 
for  fear  they  should  fall  sleepy  or  drop  faint  in 
sermon-time,  the  stems  wrapt  round  wi'  a  bit 
o'  paper,  and,  over  that,  a  clean,  white  hand- 
kercher  to  cover  all. 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  and  cousin  Simon 
Mogg — forgetful,  for  the  moment,  of  his  pru- 
dent resolve — had  strolled  over  to  Bratton  to 
see  for  themselves  whether  it  was  really  true 
that  young  Jack  White  and  Ursie  had  a-put  in 
the  banns  or  not.  After  all,  as  cousin  Simon 
Mogg  pointed  out  as  they  came  across  the  fields 


Easter  257 

together,  the  widow  could  never  need  to  ask 
help  of  her  kin — and  not  so  very  close  kin 
either — when  young  Jack  had  a-married  the 
maid  of  a  man  so  rich  as  a  Jew.  For  his  own 
part,  he  must  feel  that  now.  Whatever  he 
might  ha'  felt  called  upon  to  do  at  one  time, 
young  Jack's  marriage  had  put  an  end  to  that. 
Should  the  widow  ever  ope  her  lips  to  breathe 
a  sound  of  borrowing,  he  should  tell  her 
straight  out  that  though  he  would  ha'  helped 
her  once,  seem'  she  was  lone  and  left  by  ill-luck 
a  little  in  low  water,  now  the  young  people 
ought  to  look  to  Jacob,  they  really  ought. 
Cousin  Mogg  spoke  with  firmness,  as  a  man 
who,  under  fresh  circumstances,  had  been 
driven  to  change  his  mind. 

So  they  were  cordial  when  they  found  Riz- 
pah  by  the  church  door. 

"Well,  Rizpah!  And  how's  Rizpah  White?" 
they  cried  both  together,  pushing  forward  to 
shake  her  by  the  hand. 

The  widow  was  flurried.  The  sight  of  them 
— for  she  knew  well  enough  why  they  had 
come — made  her  self-conscious,  but  she  smiled 
upon  both. 

"Well  in  health,  thank  'ee  kindly,  girt-uncle 


258  A  Tangled  Web 

Tutchins.  Well  in  health,  cousin  Simon 
Mogg." 

The  stout  little  man  chuckled,  as  was  his 
wont.  Then  he  winked  and  looked  slyly  at  the 
widow. 

"An'  where's  young  Jack?"  he  asked. 

"There,  they  be  gone  away  together.  I 
didn'  ax  'em  what  church  they  had  it  in  mind  to 
walk  to.  For  sure  you  wouldn't  have  'em  to 
sit  there  to  hear  their  names  a-called  over  the 
desk  for  folk  to  gape  at.  Would  'ee,  girt- 
uncle  Tutchins  ?" 

"No,  no.  Better  to  walk  away  quiet.  Then 
they  can  courty,  too,  a  bit  'pon  the  road." 

Rizpah  laughed,  though  her  eyes  wandered 
around  the  familiar  churchyard.  Inwardly 
she  was  wondering  whether  she  should  be  at 
Bratton,  another  Easter-day.  That  must  be  as 
God  willed,  was  the  silent  answer  of  her  heart, 
and  the  thought  brought  her  comfort.  For 
the  trouble  and  perplexity  that  lay  upon  her 
that  morning  she  turned  for  aid  to  great-uncle 
Tutchins  and  cousin  Simon  Mogg.  She  had 
never  spoken  to  anyone  of  her  distress  before, 
never  whined,  nor  once  allowed  a  murmur  to 
cross  her  lips.  But  to  whom  should  she  tell  it 


Easter  259 

if  not  to  her  own  kin  ?  Perhaps,  in  her  pride, 
she  had  kept  her  own  counsel  too  long  already. 

"You'll  stroll  back  to  Winterhays  wi'  me, 
when  church  is  out,  girt-uncle  Tutchins,  won't 
'ee  now?  An'  eat  a  cake,  an'  drink  a  drop  o' 
wine  or  cider,  whichever  you  do  like,"  she  said, 
looking  round  at  him  with  the  ever  ready  wel- 
come. 

"I  will,  Rizpah  White.  An'  zo  I  will  then. 
For  I've  zaid  it  afore — an'  heard  others  zay  zo, 
too — an'  I'll  zay  it  again,  zo  I  will.  That 
there's  nar  another  'ooman  in  all  Zomerzet  can 
make  a  Easter-cake  like  Rizpah  White." 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  waxed  quite  boisterous 
in  his  praise,  and  wagged  his  little,  round  head 
bravely,  let  any  man  gainsay  it  who  may.  He 
looked  around  and  repeated  himself  in  a  loud 
voice  to  the  assembled  parish,  who  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it. 

"No.  Nor  another  for  Easter-cake  like  Riz- 
pah White,  find  her  where  you  mid." 

"An*  you,  too,  cousin  Simon  Mogg?"  she 
simpered. 

"To  be  sure,  I  will,"  heartily  answered 
cousin  Simon  Mogg,  "an'  drink  a  health  to  the 
young  couple — that  is  to  be — that  is  to  zay. 


260  A  Tangled  Web 

For  there's  nobeddy  I  ever  heard  o'  yet  that  do 
make  her  wine  better  'an  what  you  do,  Rizpah." 
Cousin  Simon  Mogg,  though  not  less  genial, 
was  a  trifle  more  dogmatic  than  great-uncle 
Tutchins. 

"An'  zo  do  'ee  then,"  said  the  widow,  pleas- 
antly, glancing  from  one  to  the  other.  "I  shall 
look  for  'ee  both.  Well,  there,  I've  a-got  some- 
thing to  ask  o'  'ee.  An'  zo  now  'tis  out.  For 
who  should  I  turn  to,  if  not  to  you,  girt-uncle 
Tutchins,  that  were  my  mother's  very  own 
uncle — an'  you,  cousin  Simon  Mogg,  that 
everybody  do  look  up  to?" 

Cousin  Simon  Mogg,  in  his  modesty,  raised 
both  hands,  anxious  to  set  aside  any  such  claim 
to  the  widow's  regard.  But  at  that  moment 
the  parson  came  in  sight,  and  so  the  talk,  for 
the  time  being,  was  brought  to  an  end.  The 
village  folk  stood  back  in  a  line  upon  each  side, 
and  then,  like  sheep  following  a  shepherd,  the 
little  flock  passed  slowly  into  church.  The 
door  was  shut,  and  neither  on  the  hill,  nor  in 
the  vale,  nor  by  the  waste,  was  any  left  outside 
to  come  or  go. 

When,  at  noon,  the  service  was  over,  and  the 
street  was  full  again,  great-uncle  Tutchins  and 


Easter  26 1 

cousin  Simon  Mogg  walked  with  Rizpah  up  so 
far  as  the  little  kiss-gate  into  the  home-field. 

There  they  stood  and  excused  themselves. 

"  'Pon  my  word  then,  Rizpah  White,  much 
as  I  do  feel  tempted,  I  don't  think  we  must 
come  in  to-day,"  said  great-uncle  Tutchins, 
dragging  a  fat  silver  watch  from  his  fob  as  he 
spoke. 

Cousin  Simon  Mogg  glanced  at  the  sun. 
"  Tis  too  late,"  he  said.  "We'll  come  and  zee 
'ee  another  time.  Pa'son  were  zo  terr'ble  long- 
winded." 

But  the  widow  was  not  to  be  put  off. 

"Then  I'll  walk  along  b'ee  a  bit  o'  the  ways," 
she  told  them,  when  they  would  not  give  way. 
"But  I  do  feel  most  terr'ble  vexed  wi'  'ee,  all 
the  zame." 

"Oh!  well,  well,  sooner  than  Rizpah  should 
be  vexed."  Now  that  she  had  outdone  them, 
they  went  with  her  at  once. 

"I  suppose  you  do  both  know,"  she  began, 
sadly,  "that  we  be  none  too  well  off?" 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  became  suddenly  grave, 
for  though  he  was  nothing  but  waggery  on  the 
top-spit  like,  underneath  lay  a  bed  of  solid  wis- 
dom as  hard  as  a  stone. 


262  A  Tangled  Web 

"Ah !"  he  sighed,  more  in  love  of  truth  than 
kindness.  "Poor  William  were  none  too  wise." 

"That's  a  plain  fac',  Rizpah.  He  were  too 
free  by  half,"  echoed  cousin  Simon  Mogg. 

"I  mus'  zay  it,  he  had  no  forethought,  Riz- 
pah ;  none  at  all,"  went  on  great-uncle  Tutchins, 
determined  to  be  sternly  just. 

"Ay,  a  man  should  make  provision.  He  mid 
be  gone  to-morrow.  We  be  but  grass,  Rizpah. 
None  can  tell  when  anybeddy  mid  be  cut  off," 
said  cousin  Simon  Mogg,  for  the  sight  of  a 
poor  relative  is  enough  to  make  a  well-to-do 
man  serious. 

The  widow  stopped  just  for  a  step  or  so, 
there  in  the  path,  and  looking  them,  first  one 
and  then  the  other,  straight  in  the  face,  an- 
swered in  her  quick,  sharp  way — 

"He  had  more  heart  'an  headpiece — an'  may- 
hap his  goodness  did  outrun  forethought.  But 
I  won't  listen  to  any  harm  o'  un.  He  wur  a 
good-man  to  me  all  my  life.  But  now  he's 
gone,  I  be  oft-times  hard  put  to  it  to  know 
what's  best  to  be  done.  An'  I  thought  to  ax  'ee 
for  your  advice " 

"To  be  sure — to  be  sure,"  cried  great-uncle 
Tutchins,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  good-will, 


Easter  263 

and  waving  his  fat  hand  to  show  how  greatly 
he  had  been  misunderstood.  "I  did  but  mean 
'twur  none  o'  your  own  fau't.  Nobeddy  'pon 
earth  can  blame  you,  Rizpah." 

"  'Twur  only  for  your  comfort  that  girt- 
uncle  Tutchins  spoke.  Anything  in  reason, 
sure,  I'd  do  for  'ee,  an'  glad,"  echoed  cousin 
Simon  Mogg. 

Then,  Rizpah,  now  all  hope  of  hiding  her 
want  was  gone,  took  heart  to  open  her  whole 
mind  to  them.  How  she  had  been  unable,  do 
what  she  would,  to  make  up  the  full  rent.  How 
Ursula  was  to  have  her  money  at  Midsummer 
— enough  to  keep  on  with — if  only  they  could 
hold  over  to  then.  How  young  Jack,  and 
Ursula  too,  that  morning  had  begged  of  her  to 
sell.  And  the  thought  o'  that  did  trouble  her 
most  terr'ble.  An'  could  great-uncle  Tutchins 
or  cousin  Simon  Mogg  think  of  any  better  way 
— either  by  borrowing? 

They  both  broke  in  together.  They  had 
never  known  borrowing  turn  out  well — never 
once  in  all  their  lives — never  in  this  world. 
And  stock  was  selling  high  at  that  present  time 
— most  wonderful  high.  Really  Rizpah  couldn' 
do  better  than  part  wi'  just  enough.  And  as 


264  A  Tangled  Web 

to  the  grass — they  looked  around  at  the  grow- 
ing Spring-time,  fresh  and  green — why,  either 
great-uncle  Tutchins  or  cousin  Simon  Mogg 
would  buy  a  bit  o'  keep  to  help  the  widow 
through,  and  who  but  themselves  was  to  guess 
whose  stock  was  there. 

So,  by  the  time  they  got  to  Winterhays,  the 
widow  had  settled  that  Jack  should  drive  the 
beasts  on  Tuesday  to  Wincanton  fair. 

But  little  sooner  had  she  put  out  her  cakes 
and  wine  when  he  and  Ursula  came  in  to- 
gether. 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  had  regained  his  good- 
humour  long  ago.  He  must  be  joking — give 
him  but  half  a  chance — and  at  sight  of  Ursula 
he  drew  a  face  as  long  as  a  fiddle.  Without  a 
word  of  welcome,  he  stepped  forward  to  shake 
hands  with  the  maid. 

"This  is  a  terr'ble  sad  thing,  Ursie,  as  have 
fallen  out,"  he  said  to  her,  gloomily  shaking 
his  head,  and  still  holding  her  fast  by  the 
arm. 

The  girl's  cheek  grew  pale.  Then,  with  an 
effort  she  nerved  herself  to  listen  to  what  she 
and  Jack  had  gone  in  dread  of  all  day,  and, 
sooner  or  later,  knew  must  come. 


Easter  265 

"What's  that?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

Young  Jack  turned  his  back  upon  the  com- 
pany, and  standing  by  the  oak  bench,  made  as 
if  to  break  himself  off  a  piece  of  one  of  the  flat 
Easter  cakes  that  Rizpah  had  set  out  there  upon 
a  wooden  trencher. 
'  "What,  ha'n't  you  heard?" 

"No." 

"Not  the  terr'ble  thing  what  have  a-hap- 
pened  here  in  Bratton?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  do  mean,"  she  an- 
swered, trying  in  vain  to  get  away. 

"One  'ud  think  you  did  then,  to  see  how  your 
colour  do  go.  An'  how  you  do  trem'ley,  my 
maid." 

The  girl,  with  a  sudden  jerk,  snatched  away 
her  hand.  She  was  telling  Jack's  secret. 
They  would  all  learn  it  from  her  frightened 
look — she  knew  they  would. 

But  great-uncle  Tutchins  only  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Oh,  'tis  true  enough,"  he  cried,  shaking  his 
fat  sides  with  delight  to  see  the  girl's  concern. 
"Mus'  be  true,  for  I  heard  pa'son  zay  it  myself 
out  of  his  own  mouth.  That  one  Urs'la 

Handsford,  spinster,  o'  the  parish  o'  Bratton, 
18 


266  A  Tangled  Web 

have  a-got  it  in  mind  to  make  an  end  to  her- 
self." 

So,  he  was  only  poking  fun  at  her  about  the 
banns.  She  breathed  again.  Then  her  cheek 
reddened  at  the  thought  that  she  had  been  so 
weak. 

"Lawk,  Ursie!"  cried  the  old  man.  "To 
look  at  'ee  one  'ud  think  'twur  a  crime  to  get 
married."  He  held  up  his  glass,  a  tall,  narrow 
glass  tapering  to  a  point  at  the  stem,  and  drank 
to  her.  "Well,  here's  luck  an'  prosperity  to 
'ee.  Ursie.  A  short  life  now  to  Ursie  Hands- 
ford,  but  long  to  live  to  Missus  Urs'la  White. 
Ay!  A  dozen  bwoys  so  clean-growed  as 
young  Jack.  A  pack  o'  maidens  zo  neat  an' 
good-looking  as  yourself."  Then  he  lowered 
his  voice  and  drunk  again  in  earnest.  "An  wi' 
all  my  heart  I  wish  'ee  a  long  an'  happy  wedded 
life." 

"There  do  lef  the  poor  maid  alone  wi'  your 
foolery,  girt-uncle  Tutchins,"  put  in  Rizpah, 
with  a  laugh.  "You  did  ought  to  know  better 
at  your  age,  you  did." 

Then  they  fell  a-talking  of  common  things — 
of  what  a  rain  there  had  been  only  last  night — 
and  what  a  nipping  wind  o'  Good  Vriday — ay, 


Easter  267 

wonderful  sharp  for  so  late  in  the  year.  These 
were  the  great  matters  that  filled  their  simple 
minds.  For  nothing  had  been  found  in  Brat- 
ton  up  to  now,  and  not  a  soul  was  missing 
round  about  so  far  as  anybody  knew. 


268  A  Tangled  Web 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  FUN  o'  THE  FAIR 

It  was  early  morning,  and  the  high-road 
along  the  ridge  of  the  hill  was  thronged  with 
folk  and  cattle,  all  with  heads  and  faces  turned 
one  way,  making  towards  Wincanton  Fair. 

The  widow  was  not  going.  She  had  given 
her  errands  to  Ursula — for  in  those  days,  at  the 
fairs,  people  laid  in  their  household  stuffs  and 
bought  their  stores  to  last  for  months — but,  for 
all  that,  as  soon  as  milking  was  done,  she 
climbed  the  slope  unseen  and  stood  a  little  back 
in  the  field  by  gap  in  the  hedge  to  watch  the 
passing  by. 

Ever  since  daylight,  the  line  of  men  and 
women,  horses,  flocks,  and  herds  of  horned 
stock,  had  never  ceased,  and  still  the  broken 
stream  went  by,  a  straggling  pageant  full  of 
change  and  colour. 

Nobody  knew  the  Whites  had  stock  to  sell, 
except  themselves,  great-uncle  Tutchins,  and 
cousin  Simon  Mogg.  Rizpah,  in  her  anxiety, 
was  bent  in  mind  to  learn  what  else  was  going 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         269 

to  fair  that  year.  For  the  fulness  of  the  fair, 
when,  as  sometimes  happened,  there  were  more 
sellers  that  buyers,  oftentimes  beat  down  the 
price.  And  yet,  for  other  things,  not  like  her 
own,  the  more  the  better,  for  that  brought  folk 
there.  So  ever  and  again,  as  one  thing  passed 
out  of  sight,  the  eyes  of  Rizpah  turned  in  ex- 
pectation to  the  distant  bend  of  the  road,  wait- 
ing in  wonder  to  see  what  might  come  next. 

There  had  been  a  slight  white  frost  towards 
the  small  hours  of  the  night ;  but  except  under 
the  long  shadow  of  a  tree,  or  here  and  there 
where  the  glistening  rime  still  clung  to  a  mote 
of  straw  or  a  dead  twig  lying  in  the  road,  the 
sun  had  melted  it  away.  And  the  larks  sang 
overhead  for  ever  and  ever,  one  more  begin- 
ning just  as  another  dropped.  It  seemed  to 
soften  Rizpah's  sorrow,  and  give  a  promise  of 
better  days  to  see  the  earth  spring-clad  and  hear 
all  sound  so  sweet. 

A  herd  of  heifers  went  loitering  on  upon  the 
grass,  sometimes  stopping  to  pull  a  blade  as 
they  passed.  Rizpah  took  note  they  were  poor 
and  thin  and  their  red  coats  still  ragged  from 
the  winter  cold.  But  lauk!  Nobody  would 
know  'em  again  in  a  month's  time. 


270  A  Tangled  Web 

A  little  way  behind  followed  a  flock  of  ewes 
and  lambs.  The  whole  place  was  filled  with 
bleating ;  and,  as  they  came  overright,  the  slant- 
ing light  fell  like  an  edge  of  silver  upon  the  long 
wool  on  the  backs  of  the  ewes.  They  were 
panting.  Their  breath  rose  like  a  faint  vapour, 
scenting  the  morning  air.  The  shepherd  stood 
awhile  to  rest,  and  the  lambs  wriggled  their 
tails  and  sucked. 

Scarcely  were  these  gone  when  a  drove  of 
colts  came  galloping  down  the  road.  Suddenly 
they  stopped  and  would  have  turned  back.  But 
a  party  of  gipsies  came  in  view,  riding  bare- 
backed on  nags  as  lean  as  rails,  and,  with  shouts 
and  a  great  cracking  of  whips,  drove  them  all 
on  again. 

As  the  day  drew  on,  people  began  to  come 
along,  too,  neighbours  who  lived  handy  travel- 
ling afoot,  and  all  sorts  of  remote  Puckeridges 
and  Moggs  whom  Rizpah  rarely  saw. 

There  was  a  tinkling  of  bells;  and  then, 
around  the  corner  came  a  nodding  team,  all 
trimmed  with  flowers,  six  of  them,  all  tossing 
their  heads  with  pride,  making  the  brass-fitted 
harness  glisten  in  the  sun.  The  waggon  be- 
hind was  trimmed  up  with  laurel  boughs,  so 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         271 

that  it  did  really  look  like  a  bower  or  a  walking 
wood.  And  there  was  aunt  Rebecca  Eliza 
Mogg — so  she  was — a-zot  quite  comfortable- 
like  'pon  a  rush-bottomed  chair,  so  large  as  life, 
sure,  an'  all  the  vive  around  her  looking  most 
wonderful  well. 

Rizpah  had  hoped  to  stand  unnoticed,  but 
love  of  kin  overcame  her  sorrow.  She  must 
have  one  word  with  aunt  Rebecca  Eliza.  To 
let  her  pass  so  near  and  never  to  speak  was  so 
bad  as  having  a  body  to  the  house  and  never  to 
say  "Zit  down."  She  stepped  out  into  the  road. 

"Whoa,"  shouted  the  carter. 

The  team  stopped. 

"Why  'tis  never  aunt  Rebecca  Eliza  Mogg !" 
cried  Rizpah,  holding  up  both  arms. 

"Why,  'tis  never  you,  Rizpah  White!" 
echoed  aunt  Rebecca  Eliza  Mogg,  clapping  her 
hands. 

"Dear,  dear,  then." 

"Well,  well,  now." 

"This  is  good  for  sore  eyes." 

"An'  zo  'tis.  Do  'ee  get  up.  Pull  off  your 
apern  an'  get  up.  Such  a  beautiful  day,  an' 
all,"  cried  aunt  Rebecca  Eliza,  all  in  one  breath. 

But  Rizpah  bethought  herself.     To  be  sure 


272  A  Tangled  Web 

Jack  must  go  with  Ursula,  and  their  wedding 
so  near ;  and  so  she  must  bide  at  home. 

So  the  whip  cracked,  the  team  went  on  again 
with  a  jangling  music  like  many  distant  chimes 
going  all  at  once.  Yet  only  to  set  eyes  on  aunt 
Rebecca  Eliza  Mogg,  and  call  out  in  wonder — 
though,  after  all,  her  presence  there  was  noth- 
ing out  of  the  way — was  a  delight  and  helped 
to  lighten  a  sad  heart.  For  such  simple  joys, 
when  there  are  many  of  them,  make  up  the  sum 
of  happy  life. 

"Come  in  on  your  way  back,"  she  shouted 
after  them.  Aunt  Rebecca  Eliza  Mogg  waved 
her  hand  and  promised  that,  if  there  were  time, 
she  would. 

Then,  before  Rizpah  could  get  back  out  of 
the  way,  great-uncle  Tutchins  came  along,  too, 
to  be  sure  he  did. 

He  rode  slowly,  on  that  upstanding  grey 
mare  of  his  that  many  folk  said  was  touched  in 
the  wind.  Anyway,  there  was  not  the  leastest 
sign  of  a  cough  about  her  to-day,  so  far  as  Riz- 
pah could  listen.  And  great-uncle  Tutchins 
laughed  at  the  bare  thought,  and  was  ready  to 
swear  the  mare  was  as  sound  as  a  bell  of  brass. 
He  only  wished  he  was  so  sound  himself — so 


The  Fun  o'   the  Fair         273 

there.  Not  but  what  the  old  man  really  looked 
wonderful  well  that  morning,  and  carried  a 
countenance  so  fresh  as  a  daisy ;  and,  for  all  his 
wrinkles,  having  but  just  now  shaved,  he  looked 
as  clear  and  as  pink  as  any  young  maid.  He 
did  really.  Rizpah  was  bound  to  tell  him  so 
outright,  if  'twere  the  last  words  she  had  to 
speak,  for  he  smiled  so  merry  and  so  twinkle- 
eyed,  too.  But  then,  great-uncle  Tutchins  was 
always  a  fair-skinned  man  afore  he  went  grey, 
and  that,  no  doubt,  did  account  for  it,  as  Riz- 
pah, not  wishing  to  flatter  or  to  seem  for  any 
end  of  her  own  to  be  a-sucking-up,  hastened  in 
all  seriousness  to  add.  The  mare's  tail  was  tied 
up  with  a  whisp  of  straw  and  a  bit  of  red  rib- 
bon to  show  she  was  for  sale.  So  great-uncle 
Tutchins  had  no  time  to  stay  about,  for  he  was 
bent  on  business  that  day,  if  ever  he  was  in  all 
his  life. 

"But  look  in  as  you  do  ride  home,"  she  asked 
him — for  what  could  she  do  less  ?  And  great- 
uncle  Tutchins  answered  that,  please  God,  he 
would. 

At  last  Rizpah  saw  her  own  cows,  seven  in 
all,  and  she  knew  them  like  so  many  friends. 

In  front  came  the  two  white-faced  ones  she 


274  A  Tangled  Web 

always  chose  to  milk  herself,  and  then  the  big 
sparked  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn,  and  all 
the  other  four  were  red.  Leisurely  they  came, 
close  by  the  hedge-row  under  where  she  stood, 
bringing  with  their  full  udders  a  sweet  odour  of 
fresh  milk.  The  widow  sighed.  Look  at  it 
how  she  would,  this  was  the  best,  the  only, 
thing  to  do.  A  little  way  behind  were  Jack  and 
Ursula,  she  in  red  hose  and  the  new  bodice  put 
on  the  day  before  yesterday.  She  carried  a 
stick,  too,  a  switch  of  willow  covered  thick 
with  palms,  picked  up  on  the  way.  They  were 
close  together,  talking  as  they  went,  and  had 
not  glimpsed  the  widow  as  yet. 

"Keep  a  good  face  on  it,  Jack,"  the  girl  was 
urging,  in  a  low  voice.  "No  man  living  can 
be  ever  the  wiser." 

For  all  that,  Jack  looked  most  wofully  down- 
cast to  think  what  he  was  about,  and  never  once 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground.  And  what 
sense,  thought  Rizpah,  was  it  to  talk  like  that. 
Whether  you  buy  or  sell,  every  soul  within  ten 
mile  must  know  what  you  may  hap  to  pay  or 
take  before  the  day  is  out. 

The  widow  was  upon  the  point  of  calling  to 
him  to  get  the  most  he  could.  Yet  what  good 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         275 

could  that  do?  Jack  would  stand  out  for  the 
last  farthing  for  all  their  sakes.  Without  a 
word,  and  unseen,  but  with  a  full  heart  and 
tears  in  her  eyes,  Rizpah  stepped  back  from  the 
hedge,  watched  them  pass  out  of  sight,  and 
then  slowly  turned  home  to  Winterhays.  She 
stopped  a  moment  before  going  indoors.  How 
could  she  bear  to  face  the  folk  that  would  come 
in  to-night? 

The  quiet  cows  took  no  driving,  and  side  by 
side,  young  Jack  and  Ursula  kept  on  at  even 
pace. 

Sunday,  yesterday,  and  to-day,  that  was  all 
her  cry — unless  the  dead  could  rise  and  tell,  it 
would  never  be  found  out.  For  now  three 
days  had  passed,  and  not  a  sound  of  alarm  had 
broken  the  peace  of  the  quiet  valley.  Yester- 
day, being  Easter-Monday,  was  a  holiday. 
Folk  came  and  went  from  far  and  near.  There 
were  matches  at  ball-playing  wherever  a  square 
church-tower  stood  grey  amongst  the  budding 
trees,  and  bell-ringing  wherever  there  was  a 
peal  of  bells.  All  the  children  were  out  about 
a-primrosing,  or  after  daffodils  down  by  the 
wet  waste.  Yet  nothing  had  been  found.  And 
when  such  folks  as  went  a-visiting  came  home 


276  A  Tangled  Web 

at  night,  they  brought  no  word  that  anybody 
was  lost.  Ursie  had  made  him  go  out  all  day 
and  play  fives,  and  do  as  the  rest. 

Only  once  for  a  minute  did  her  courage  sink. 
Overright  the  trees,  she  glanced  between  the 
trunks  and  narrowly  scanned  the  grass  as  if 
expecting  to  find  some  sign,  something  that 
might  tell  tales  after  all.  The  thought  made 
her  tremble,  and  she  felt  her  voice  fail. 

"Is  that  the  place  ?"  she  asked,  hoarsely.  She 
could  not  help  herself.  She  was  afraid  to  hear, 
and  yet  the  question  would  come. 

He  only  nodded,  bent  his  head,  and  turned 
away. 

"I  shall  never  get  away  from  the  thought  o' 
it,"  he  wailed,  when  they  had  passed;  and  he 
put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
sight  of  something  before  his  mind. 

For  a  few  steps  they  went  on  in  silence.  Ur- 
sula was  the  first  to  find  the  courage  to  speak. 

"Can  be  nobeddy  o'  these  parts,"  she  pres- 
ently began  in  a  low  whisper.  "Mus'  be  one  o' 
they  that  do  take  beastes  to  London,  or  some 
girt  place  far  away,  a-hurrying  across  by  night 
mayhap  to  catch  some  other  coach.  He  mus' 
ha'  met  'ee  on  his  way  from  market  or  to  fair. 


The  Fun  o'   the  Fair         277 

Why,  mid  be  weeks  afore  anything  is  a-found 
out.  Some  o'  that  sort  do  bide  away  from 
home  a  woful  while.  An'  then,  if  he  should  be 
found,  their  first  thoughts  'ull  be  o'  one  aware 
of  his  ways  to  lie  in  wait  for  un.  'Tis  all  safe, 
Jack  dear.  I  do  know  'tis.  I  do  feel  in  my 
mind,  like,  that  'tis.  An'  then,  as  time  do  go, 
the  thought  'ull  wear  out." 

So  she  tried  to  comfort  him  all  the  way,  and 
so  much  the  better  because  she  believed  in  every 
word  she  said. 

At  last  they  came  upon  a  brow,  opposite 
Wincanton  where  there  were  straggling  cot- 
tages along  the  road.  They  could  look  right 
into  the  town,  with  a  straight  street  running  up 
the  steep  hill,  and  low,  thatched  houses  of  all 
heights  and  sizes,  dim  in  a  mist  of  pale  blue 
smoke,  upon  each  side.  Below,  in  the  dip,  was 
a  crowd  of  folk  and  cattle  all  in  uproar  and  con- 
fusion, as  they  had  come  in  by  different  ways. 
Such  a  blaring,  such  a  bleating  surely  ears  had 
never  heard.  What  with  the  bustle  and  shouts 
of  drovers,  and  every  boy  and  hobble-de-hoy 
blowing  a  cow's  horn  fit  to  burst,  merely  from 
good  spirits  and  a  delight  in  noise,  Jack  felt  his 
heart  come  back. 


278  A  Tangled  Web 

"You  be  right,  Ursie,"  he  cried,  suddenly 
looking  her  full  in  the  face  for  the  first  time. 
"I'll  cast  off  care.  What's  done  is  done  past 
mending,  an'  gone  a-past  thinking  about." 

"An5  zo  do  'ee,  Jack,"  she  said,  gladly. 
"Come  on.  Make  haste  to  get  your  business 
done,  an'  zo'll  I  mine.  An'  then  we'll  meet  an' 
go  about  together.  An'  never  let  'em  zay  you'll 
prove  a  sorry  bridegroom,  Jack.  Why,  to  look 
at  'ee,  they'll  think  you've  a-lost  heart  to  zee  me 
a-buying  my  wedding  things." 

His  eye  brightened.  He  held  up  his  head 
again  with  the  old,  devil-may-care  look. 

"  'Tis  all  I  do  care  for,"  he  cried,  and  caught 
her  hold  and  kissed  her  there  in  the  road. 
"Come  on." 

He  gave  the  hindermost  cow  a  whack  upon 
the  back.  As  she  ran  forward  the  lazy  beasts 
in  front  bestirred  themselves;  so  there  was  no 
more  time  for  talking,  and  he  must  needs  run, 
too,  to  keep  up.  So  they  parted.  Ursula  went 
away  up  street,  and  he  down  into  the  thick  of 
the  fair. 

In  the  hubbub,  the  merriment,  the  jokes,  and 
the  wrangling,  Jack's  spirits  rose. 

All  around  were  people  known  to  him,  for 


The  Fun  o'   the  Fair         279 

everybody  went  to  fair  in  days  gone  by,  and 
those  who  had  no  dealing  to  do,  at  least  found 
plenty  to  laugh  at.  All  up  the  street  upon  both 
sides  the  lower  windows,  such  as  were  in  reach, 
had  been  boarded  up  to  save  the  panes;  for 
tradesmen's  standings  lined  the  road,  leaving 
only  a  narrow  footway  between  them  and  the 
houses.  And,  to  begin  with,  was  a  fine  to  do, 
for  the  sparked  cow,  unused  to  so  much  com- 
pany, ran  wild,  and,  in  her  blind  fright,  struck 
against  the  corner  of  a  stall  and  knocked  it 
down.  The  ground  was  strewed  with  cakes 
and  gingerbread.  To  see  the  folks  scramble 
would  have  cheered  the  heart  of  any  man  except 
the  owner  of  the  stall.  But  he  got  angry,  as 
well  he  might,  to  find  his  wares  all  gone  and 
more  trampled  under  foot  than  was  picked  up. 
Out  came  he  to  the  front  and  stood  up  before 
young  Jack  with  his  fists  clenched,  and  began  to 
shout  and  boast  of  what  he  would  do.  But, 
after  all,  he  thought  twice  about  that ;  and  the 
folks  jeered  when  he  quieted  down  and  talked 
about  law,  which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  not 
the  same  thing  as  a  fair,  stand-up  fight. 

Jack  had  great  luck  with  the  selling  of  his 
beasts. 


280  A  Tangled  Web 

Malachi  Webb,  who  had  heard  about  the  tak- 
ing of  Winterhays,  and  had  his  knife  into  Jacob 
Handsford,  to  be  sure  he  had,  fell  in  with  a 
young  man  from  up  the  country  who  was  look- 
ing around  to  buy.  Malachi  just  about  cracked 
the  beasts  up  in  the  ear  o'  un  like,  and  told  him 
the  lowest  price,  too — like  a  friend,  as  a  favour. 
So  when  Jack  asked  high,  the  man  oped  the 
mouth  o'  un  pretty  widish  like,  and  gave  a 
goodish  bid  in  the  first  place. 

"Vive  poun',  all  roun',"  cried  Jack. 

"Not  a  ha'penny  more  'an  vower  poun' 
a-piece,"  cried  the  man. 

"Not  a  varden  less,  for  I  wouldn'  bate  'pon 
'em  to  my  own  brother." 

"Not  a  varden  more,  so  sure  as  I  do  stan' 
here." 

"Then  'tis  little  good  to  bide  about,"  said 
Jack,  making  as  if  to  go. 

"None  at  all,"  agreed  the  man. 

But  each  one  peeped  over  the  shoulder  of  him 
like,  to  see  what  the  other  was  thinking  about, 
and  so  their  eyes  met. 

Then  the  stranger  stepped  back  and  sprang 
a  crown  a  head,  and  Jack — well  Jack,  after  a 
while  he  did  bate  the  same,  for  all  he  had  said 


The  Fun  o*  the  Fair         281 

before.  And  then  Malachi  walked  up  between 
them — looking  so  knock-kneed  and  innocent 
like,  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth — 
and  put  his  nose  in  as  folks  said  was  always 
the  way  of  him. 

"What  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?"  cried  he.  "Split 
the  difference.  A  pity  not  to  deal."  And 
Malachi  shook  his  head  sadly,  feeling  the 
pathos  of  a  likely  business  transaction  cut  off 
in  its  prime. 

So  the  man  said  he  would  spring  another 
crown  if  Jack  would  throw  back  a  pound  on 
the  deal. 

"There  now,"  shouted  Malachi,  and  patted 
Jack  on  the  back. 

But  la !  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Jack  had 
got  the  young  man  by  the  hand  and  cried: 
"Done,"  with  a  sudden  alacrity  fit  to  make  the 
buyer  jump. 

The  full  money  was  solemnly  counted  out 
there-right,  solemnly  paid,  and  the  pound  as 
solemnly  handed  back.  Without  waiting  a 
minute,  Jack  hurried  up  to  Lawyer  Anstey  and 
settled  the  rent.  Malachi  Webb  was  waiting 
at  the  door  for  him  when  he  came  out,  and  took 
seven  half-crowns  for  his  trouble,  as  was  noth- 

19 


282  A  Tangled  Web 

ing  but  right.  For  everything  was  turning  out 
well.  No  notice  had  been  given.  Winterhays 
was  safe  for  another  year.  They  stood  and 
chuckled  to  think  how  mad  little  Jakey  Hands- 
ford  would  be  to  find  himself  outdone. 

To  crown  all,  who  should  chance  to  come 
toddling  by  but  great-uncle  Tutchins,  with  a 

saddle  in  one  hand  and  a  bridle  in  the  other. 

1 

He  was  wonderful  pleased  with  himself,  and 
smiled,  as  they  say,  all  over  the  face  o'  un.  He 
had  sold  his  upstanding  mare — ay  sure!  sold 
her  to  a  gips}' — and  then  they  all  laughed  to 
think  how  that  gipsy  had  been  proper  a- 
sucked  in. 

"Come  on,  come  on,"  cried  the  little  man, 
and  they  went  into  "The  Bear"  to  drink  a  cup 
for  luck.  And  there,  over  the  ale,  well,  it  did 
leak  out,  like,  that  the  mare  was  bad  in  her 
bellows.  Only  great-uncle  Tutchins  had  oiled 
her  up  for  the  day  so  well  that,  verily  and  truly, 
she  could  never  ha'  knowed  her  own  self,  like, 
for  she  never  wheezed  once  in  five  hours  nor 
gave  the  leastest  bit  of  a  cough.  And  she 
looked  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  she  did.  If  she 
had  a-bin  but  sound,  mind,  great-uncle  Tutch- 
ins swore  he  would  ha'  turned  away  from  twice 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         283 

the  money.  Not  but  what  the  gipsy  would  do 
well  with  her,  too,  for  sure  she'd  be  a  wonderful 
mare  to  sell.  Why  a  man  wi'  no  tongue  in  the 
head  o'  un — in  a  manner  o'  speaking — could 
sell  that  mare. 

So  everybody  was  doing  well  and  as  merry 
as  May.  And  when  four  out  of  five  are  mak- 
ing money,  what  else  would  you  look  for? 

It  was  hard  upon  noon  when  Jack  went  up  to 
meet  Ursula,  but  they  had  all  the  rest  of  the  day 
before  them  until  dusk.  What  with  the  noise, 
the  beating  of  drums,  and  the  shouting  upon 
all  sides,  his  gloom  was  driven  away.  And 
sure  there  was  a  shilling  or  two  to  spare  when 
he  had  sold  the  cows  so  well.  And  Ursie  must 
have  a  fairing.  He  would  treat  her  to  any- 
thing she  liked.  He  was  a  true  White  so  long 
as  he  had  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  and  he  hurried 
her  on  from  sight  to  sight,  never  resting  long  in 
one  place,  sometimes  scarcely  time  enough  to 
see  the  show  out. 

An  excitement  and  a  wildness  had  got  hold 
of  him;  an  eagerness  to  be  doing,  so  that  he 
might  not  stop  to  think. 

There  was  a  fire-eater  who  swallowed  live 
coals ;  and  a  black  man  in  a  booth  who  fought 


284  A  Tangled  Web 

with  a  mastiff.  Always,  as  they  came  to  some 
new  wonder  or  delight,  they  met  with  friends 
who  stopped  to  ask  if  they  had  fixed  the  day  and 
to  wish  them  luck  with  all  their  hearts.  Ur- 
sula's cheeks  blushed  like  roses.  It  was  plain 
to  see  young  Jack  did  not  trouble,  so  they 
said. 

So  far  from  being  downcast,  she  had  much 
ado  now  to  keep  him  within  bounds. 

Close  by  the  churchyard  wall,  there  was 
cudgel-playing  for  ten  shillings  and  a  gold- 
laced  hat.  Two  cider-butts  had  been  brought 
out  and  set  two  feet  apart;  and  perched,  one 
upon  each,  without  chance  of  stepping  back, 
two  gamesters  belaboured  each  other  with  short 
staves  about  half  the  thickness  of  a  man's  hand- 
wrist.  One  of  them,  beaten,  and  with  blood 
streaming  down  his  forehead,  came  slowly 
down  the  ladder  as  they  drew  near.  In  a  mo- 
ment Jack  was  for  going  up.  To  hear  the 
clatter  of  the  sticks,  and  now  the  cheers  of  the 
crowd,  had  fired  him  with  ambition.  But  Ursie 
held  him  back. 

"Let  me  go,  Ursie,"  so  he  cried,  "an'  you 
shall  see  me  knock  un  off  the  cask." 

"Bide  where  you  be,"  she  told  him.     "For 


The  Fun  o'   the  Fair         285 

I'll  never  stan'  up  in  church  bezide  'ee,  wi'  your 
hair  a-cut  short,  an'  a  patch  o'  plaster  the  shape 
of  a  Chris-cross  'pon  the  crown  o'  'ee." 

So  he  needs  must  listen,  for  she  held  such 
power  over  him  that  he  never  could  go  against 
Ursie,  want  what  he  would.  And  everywhere 
they  went,  something  or  other  called  up  a  talk 
of  their  wedding,  and  that  put  him  in  such 
heart  that  for  the  time  it  seemed  that  he  had 
never  a  care. 

At  a  corner  where  the  roads  ran  together  was 
an  open  space,  and  there  a  travelling  doctor, 
with  a  Merry-Andrew  by  his  side,  who  gri- 
maced and  tumbled  to  draw  a  crowd  and  make 
the  people  laugh,  had  set  up  his  stage.  The 
fantastic  dress  of  the  fellow,  in  a  red  robe  edged 
with  fur,  caught  the  eye  of  young  Jack.  The 
mountebank  was  shouting  at  the  top  of  his 
voice — giving  away  powders  to  cure  aches — 
head-ache,  tooth-ache,  stomach-ache,  heart- 
ache— giving  them  away  for  a  groat  a-piece  to 
cover  the  cost  of  mixing  and  the  paper. 

"And  why  do  I  come  here  to-day  without  pay 
or  profit?"  he  was  asking.  "Why  do  I  offer, 
three  for  a  shilling  in  this  place  only,  a  remedy 
that  the  best  half-guinea  ever  coined  cannot  pay 


286  A  Tangled  Web 

for  ?  It  is  because  of  my  love  for  Wincanton- 
town,  that  I  offer  this  boon  to  the  poor  of 
Wincanton.  And  should  the  affluent  be  dis- 
honourable enough  to  avail  themselves  of  my 
generosity,  I  can  ask  no  man  his  means.  For, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  there  is  no  man,  woman 
or  child,  who  does  not  need  my  remedy.  You 
cannot  be  in  health  without  my  remedy.  For 
the  humours  of  the  body  are  at  work  breeding  a 
wurrum — a  malignant  wurrum — thank  you." 

Young  Jack  had  stepped  forward  and  handed 
up  his  groat,  though  he  had  never  had  an  ache 
in  his  life.  It  was  not  that  he  believed  the  fel- 
low or  hearkened  to  his  talk,  but  something 
within  would  not  let  him  rest.  And  the  man 
held  up  the  little  paper  packet  between  finger 
and  thumb,  looked  Jack  straight  in  the  face, 
and  said,  in  a  tone  as  serious  as  if  he  had  been 
telling  Gospel-truth  in  church : 

"There  is  a  powder — of  such  strength — that, 
given  to  a  dead  man,  if  you  can  but  get  him  to 
swallow  it,  will  save  his  life." 

All  the  crowd  set  up  a  laugh.  The  country 
folk  of  those  days  never  failed  to  find  the  wit 
in  a  saving  "if."  But  young  Jack  grew  red  in 
the  wattle.  He  did  feel  most  terr'ble  mad,  so 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         287 

people  thought,  that  the  man  should  talk  to  him 
as  if  he  were  a  fool. 

Ursie  was  wild  with  him,  too,  for  parting 
with  his  groat. 

"How  can  'ee  be  such  a  fool?  "Tis  but  a 
half  of  a  pennyweight  o'  chalk-dust !"  she  cried, 
in  a  tear,  as  she  opened  the  paper  to  find  a  pinch 
of  white  dust. 

Just  then  a  voice  close  behind  them  spoke  in 
a  quiet  drawl : 

"  T'ud  be  something,  then,  if  you  could 
bring  back  the  murdered  man  that  they've 
a-found  to  Bratton,  zo  'tis  zaid." 

They  started  and  turned  round.  Peering 
over  their  shoulders  and  between  their  bent 
heads  was  cousin  Simon  Mogg. 

But  Ursula,  though  her  cheek  turned  pale 
and  her  breath  came  panting  between  her  parted 
lips,  quick  as  thought  recovered  her  wits. 

"Lauk!  How  you  do  galley  a  body,  Si- 
mon Mogg — wi'  your  nonsense,"  she  cried, 
angrily. 

"  'Tis  true  as  the  light,"  he  said,  laughing  to 
see  how  she  was  shaking  with  the  fright.  Then 
his  voice  sank  into  an  awesome  whisper :  "Some 
o'  they  run-about  gentry  'pon  the  way  to  fair 


288  A  Tangled  Web 

have  a-picked  up  a  dead  man  close  below  your 
place." 

"Whereto?" 

"Down  there  in  the  bottom." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  'Tis  a  foreigner,  zo  they  do  zay."  By  this, 
cousin  Simon  Mogg  only  meant  a  man  un- 
known in  Bratton  or  close  around.  "But  the 
constable  do  think  'tis  one  they've  a-had  word 
about  from  up  the  country  that  have  a-bin  miss- 
ing for  a  week.  Brought  there  by  the  gipsies, 
like  enough.  They  do  mean  to  bring  'un  into 
iWincanton,  and  send  for  his  friends  to  own  'un 
— leastways,  that's  the  talk  here  in  the  fair." 
•  Cousin  Simon  Mogg  had  gradually  dropped 
back  into  a  careless  manner  of  speaking,  but 
now  again  he  fell  into  dead  earnest : 

"Girt-uncle  Tutchins  have  a-bought  hisself  a 
wonderful  nag,"  he  said.  "Just  about  a  pretty 
chestnut  nag."  And  with  that  he  turned  about 
and  went  off,  elbowing  and  shoving  his  way 
through  the  crowd. 

After  all,  he  had  spoken  as  of  a  matter  of 
small  account.  It  might  have  sounded  but 
mere  gossip,  likely  enough  to  prove  untrue,  if 
they  had  not  known.  Yet  the  words  fell  upon 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         289 

them  like  a  blow,  losing  no  weight  because  this 
had  been  looked  for  and,  sooner  or  later,  needs 
must  come.  Their  hearts  sank  within  them, 
cold  and  numb.  Not  from  the  fear  of  being 
found  out.  What  cousin  Simon  Mogg  had  let 
drop  was  what  the  constable  and  all  the  rest 
were  sure  to  think.  Already  suspicion  had 
started  upon  a  false  track.  Yet,  though  it  could 
never  come  to  light,  something  within  the  soul 
of  each  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  they 
alone  knew. 

They  could  stay  no  longer  in  the  crowd. 
They  could  not  bear  the  laughter  and  the  voices 
upon  every  side. 

Of  one  mind,  they  left  the  corner  with  its 
blaring  mountebank  and  noise,  and,  along  the 
narrow  pavement  between  the  standings  and 
the  fronts  of  houses,  made  their  way  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  town.  Ursula  went  in  front  and 
Jack  followed  close  at  her  heels.  All  the  people 
known  to  them  were  out  in  mid-street,  and  they 
did  not  speak  a  word  until  they  came  to  the 
town's  end  at  the  beginning  of  the  open  road. 

It  was  already  well  on  in  the  afternoon. 
Frugal  folk,  who  came  to  fair  only  for  business, 
began  to  be  setting  out  for  home.  Hard  by 


290  A  Tangled  Web 

stood  an  old  inn  with  a  broad  archway  leading 
into  a  square  yard.  From  the  open  window  of 
a  room  above  came  the  sound  of  music — the 
scraping  of  fiddles  with  the  drumming  upon  a 
bare  floor  of  dancing  feet.  The  eldest  of  Aunt 
Rebecca  Mogg's  five  popped  her  head  out  of  the 
lattice,  with  a  knot  of  red  ribbons  for  a  fairing 
tied  up  in  her  hair,  and  called  to  them. 

"Come  on  in,  Ursie.  Come  on,  Jack.  "Pis 
but  a  shilling  for  the  two,  an'  there's  lots  o'  us 
here." 

"We've  a-got  to  go  a-milking,"  answered 
Ursula,  quite  pat. 

"Mother  do  mean  to  stop  at  Winterhays  on 
her  way  back,"  cried  the  girl.  Her  voice  qua- 
vered with  excitement,  and,  unwilling  to  waste 
more  time,  she  drew  in  her  head. 

Malachi  Webb  came  riding  out  a-horseback, 
bending  to  pass  under  the  arch. 

"Hello !  What's  this  then  they  do  tell  up  ?" 
he  shouted  across  the  road  to  young  Jack.  "I 
had  half  a  mind  to  ride  round  by  Winterhays, 
for  'tis  little  out  o'  my  way." 

So  there  was  like  to  be  no  peace,  no  place  out 
o'  hearing  of  the  talk  of  it,  even  when  they 
should  get  home  from  fair. 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         291 

For  the  best  part  of  a  mile  they  were  forced 
to  keep  along  the  road.  Now  that  the  stock 
was  gone  they  could  do  as  they  liked,  and  they 
turned  off  by  a  footpath  into  the  quiet  fields, 
and  hurried  away,  out  of  sight  and  call  of  the 
passers-by.  Yet  they  were  afraid  to  go  home. 
As  they  drew  near  the  village,  at  every  gate  and 
stile  they  loitered.  All  the  early  spring,  with 
the  quietude  of  eventide,  broke  into  full  song — 
the  blackbird  hidden  in  the  dark  orchard,  and 
the  thrush  upon  the  hedge-row  elm.  From  the 
ridge  came  the  distant  halloing  of  drovers 
merry  with  drink,  and  singing,  too,  as  they 
went,  slowly  driving  cattle  away  from  fair. 
Jack  and  Ursula  leaned  against  an  upright  slab 
of  blue  stone  set  in  the  hedge-row,  within  view 
of  the  house.  They  looked  like  lovers  who  can- 
not find  it  in  their  hearts  to  part.  But  they  did 
not  talk.  They  stood  side  by  side,  yet  apart, 
never  speaking  a  word,  until,  at  last,  when  only 
half  the  rim  of  the  setting  sun  peered  red  above 
the  far  west,  and  the  first  gloom  of  coming 
darkness  fell  upon  the  wood,  Ursula  said  she 
would  go  home. 

"Come  up  to  house  wi'  me  first,"  he  begged 
of  her,  and  caught  her  hold  by  the  arm. 


292  A  Tangled  Web 

"I  had  better  to  get  back,"  she  faltered,  for 
her  heart  was  falling  to  think  of  what  was  be- 
fore them. 

"No,  Ursie.  No,  I  can't  go  up  alone.  I 
shall  do  something — or  say  something — or  act 
like  a  fool — I  do  know  I  shall.  Come,  Ursie ! 
Come!" 

In  their  fears  and  excitement  all  thoughts  of 
love  had  been  forgotten.  They  had  not  so 
much  as  looked  at  each  other,  and  now,  as  Ur- 
sula glanced  up  into  Jack's  face,  she  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  his  cheeks  flushed. 
He  bore  the  appearance  of  one  who  had  been 
revelling  at  a  fair.  Already  visitors  in  twos 
and  threes  had  crossed  the  home-field  to  Win- 
terhays.  Quite  a  company  must  have  gathered 
there  by  now.  She  could  not  leave  him  to  face 
it  out  alone.  All  the  while  she  was  not  there, 
she  would  go  in  fear  of  what  he  might  have 
done. 

"I'll  walk  up  wi'  'ee,"  she  said,  loosening  his 
hold  and  standing  up  from  the  stile,  firm  of 
mind  again.  "But,  Jack,  be  yourself.  If  we 
had  no  knowledge  o'  it,  we  should  talk,  an'  be 
as  hot  to  learn  as  the  rest." 

They  had  got  as  far  as  the  garden-hatch,  or 


The  Fun  o'   the  Fair         293 

very  near,  when,  suddenly,  out  of  the  home- 
stead, pell-mell,  one  upon  the  other's  heels,  the 
folk  came  running  into  the  home-ground. 
Somebody  through  the  window  had  chanced  to 
eye  great-uncle  Tutchins,  jogging  in  upon  his 
new  mare.  So  they  all  rushed  out  to  have  a 
look.  And,  la !  there  she  was,  a  picture  to  be 
sure.  And  so  was  great-uncle  Tutchins,  too. 
She  was  a  silver-maned  chestnut,  with  a  beau- 
tiful, long,  swish  tail  that  had  never  been 
docked,  and  great-uncle  Tutchins  was  wonder- 
ful pleased  with  himself.  It  made  him  proud 
as  Punch  to  see  the  folk  come  round.  His  face, 
ruddy  in  the  evening  light,  shone  like  a  pippin. 
He  had  made  a  wonderful  deal.  Great-uncle 
Tutchins  knew  he  had.  The  mare,  there,  she 
was  so  dappled  as  a  deer,  she  really  was;  and 
when  great-uncle  Tutchins  drew  rein  she 
arched  her  neck  and  the  mane  glistened  like 
silk. 

"Lauk!  Girt-uncle  Tutchins,  then!"  cried 
one  and  all.  "Why,  you  must  ha'  bin  in  luck 
to  ha'  picked  her  up." 

"Now,  all  o'  'ee  then,  try  to  pick  a  fau't  in 
her,"  cried  the  old  man,  glancing  round  so  red 
in  the  cheek  and  so  proud  as  a  turkey-cock.  "I 


294  A  Tangled  Web 

can't  pick  a  fau't  in  her  to  save  my  life.  Be 
dalled  if  she  didn'  come  on  jus'  the  very  same 
as  if  she  knowed  my  ways." 

Now,  just  as  great-uncle  Tutchins  had 
reached  the  height  of  his  joy,  that  mare  gave  a 
cough.  It  was  but  slight,  and  in  the  outburst 
of  general  admiration  passed  unmarked.  But 
great-uncle  Tutchins  heard  it — a  quiet,  confi- 
dential, familiar,  hacking,  little  cough.  Some- 
thing like  it  he  had  known  before.  At  once, 
great-uncle  Tutchins  became  the  victim  of  a 
most  terrible  distrust.  Some  rascally  rogue 
might  have  oiled  up  this  smart  young  mare, 
and  mended  her  broken  wind  for  an  hour  or  so, 
as  could  be  done,  so  great-uncle  Tutchins  had 
before  now  heard  tell.  It  took  him  all  his  time 
to  keep  his  countenance  and  shout  again  with  a 
good  heart — 

"Come  then,  Malachi  Webb.  Come  then, 
Simon  Mogg.  Come  all  o'  'ee.  Pick  a  fau't 
in  her,  if  you  can." 

Nobody  could.  They  looked  at  her  from  the 
front — they  spied  at  her  end-ways — side-ways 
— slant-ways — every  way  that  the  wit  of  horse- 
dealing  man  has  ever  devised  or  thought  of. 
They  looked  cunning,  too,  and  sly,  and  wise  all 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         295 

at  the  same  time.  Simon  croupied  down  and 
squinted.  So  did  Malachi  Webb.  "Was  she 
a  leetle — just  a  leetle ?"  Without  wait- 
ing to  hear  what,  Malachi,  always  wishing  to 
stand  well  with  everybody,  shouted — "Not  a 
bit,  not  a  bit,"  so  promptly  that  cousin  Simon 
Mogg  gave  the  point  up  at  once,  saying,  "No, 
no.  No  more  she  is.  No  more  she  is." 

"Come  now,"  laughed  great-uncle  Tutchins, 
again  in  the  best  of  spirits,  "there  is  noth- 
ing 'pon  earth  wi'out  some  fau't  or  blemish. 
For  you  be  knock-kneed,  Malachi  Webb — an' 
Simon,  when  his  hat's  off,  is  so  bald  as  a  blad- 
der o'  lard." 

But  neither  philosophy  nor  good-humour 
could  do  any  good.  The  truth  about  that  mare 
might  never  have  been  brought  to  light,  and 
would  certainly  have  been  kept  a  secret  from 
the  good  folk  of  Bratton,  if  Simon,  in  making 
closer  and  more  intimate  examination  of  her 
near  hind  leg,  to  steady  himself  whilst  stooping, 
had  not  laid  his  right  hand  upon  her  tail. 

She  did  not  kick.  The  sweetness  of  that 
mare's  temper  was  a  credit  to  her  sex.  She 
stood  there  as  still  as  an  angel  among  friends. 
But  just  as  Simon,  leaning  a  little  heavier,  may- 


296  A  Tangled  Web 

hap,  carried  his  fingers  down  and  down  to- 
wards the  hoof,  the  tail  came  off.  Simon  fell 
backwards,  and  all  the  folks  laughed.  An'  la ! 
sure  then,  all  the  stump  that  was  left  to  the  mare 
had  been  shaved  so  close,  it  was  a  deal  balder 
than  Simon's  crown. 

"  'Pon  my  life,  then,"  cried  Malachi,  slowly 
knitting  his  brows  in  perplexity  and  half  afraid 
to  speak,  "if  I  don't  think  Mr.  Tutchins  have 
a-bought  back  his  very  own  mare — for  I  do  sim 
I  do  know  her — an'  zo  I  do,  too,  when  I  do  look 
again." 

"Why  and  zo  he  have  then." 

Now  that  the  word  was  spoken,  everybody 
knew  her  at  once.  As  well  indeed  they  might, 
for  there  was  no  such  fine,  upstanding  mare 
within  ten  miles. 

"Heart  alive!" 

"Well  now!" 

"Dear,  dear!" 

"That  great-uncle  Tutchins,  wi'  all  his  years 
an'  wit,  should  ha'  been  a-tookt  in  like  that." 

In  a  twinkling  the  little  man  was  down, 
stamping,  swearing,  using  all  the  words,  as 
Rizpah  afterwards  said,  that  he  could  lay  his 
tongue  to.  But  it  was  no  good.  Malachi  spat 


The  Fun  o'  the  Fair         297 

in  his  hand  and  rubbed  the  chestnut  dye  off  on 
his  own  palm.  Why,  as  he  said,  if  you  did  but 
pat  her,  you  could  knock  out  dust  like  beating  a 
door-mat. 

"  Tis  they  thieving,  lying  fellers  o'  gipsies. 
That's  who  'tis,"  cried  great-uncle  Tutchins. 
"They  did  ought  to  be  all  hanged — an'  should 
if  I  had  my  way.  Why  they  do  do  one  half 
the  crime  in  the  country,  they  do." 

"But  who  did  'ee  buy  her  o',  girt-uncle 
Tutchins  ?  Who  did  'ee  buy  her  o'  then  ?" 

"I  took  the  young  chap  for  a  gen'leman's 
servant." 

"There,  she  wur  a  wonderful  easy  mare  to 
zell,"  said  Malachi  Webb,  in  a  tone  of  comfort, 
"though,  to  be  sure,  to  be  short  of  a  tail  do  take 
away  some  little  from  her  looks." 

"Ah!  'tis  they  same  murdering,  run-about 
rogues,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  that 
killed  the  poor  man  they've  a-found  in  Dree- 
hounds-waste,"  roared  the  little  man,  pacing 
up  and  down  and  round  the  mare.  "That's 
who  'tis.  They  gipsy  robbers  wi'  no  house  to 
their  heads,  that  brought  that  corpse  a  hundred 
mile  or  more,  ari'  dapped  tin  down  here  in  Brat- 
ton,  to  trouble  honest  folk." 
20 


298  A  Tangled  Web 

And  that  idea  gained  ground.  Who  could 
doubt  it  ?  For,  after  all,  the  rascals  who  would 
dye  up  a  grey  mare  so  well  as  to  suck  in  a  man 
like  great-uncle  Tutchins,  could  be  guilty  of 
anything. 


The  Ordeal  299 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  ORDEAL 

"I  can't  never  do  it,  Ursie.  I  won't  go 
anighst  the  place.  I  be  afeard  o'  my  life  to  think 
o'  it — let  alone  to  go.  I  tell  'ee,  my  heart  'ud 
fail  me  to  touch  it,  or  to  zo  much  as  creep  up  an' 
cast  my  eyes  'pon  it.  For  they  do  say  that 
when  you  do  but  draw  nigh  the  blood  'ull  flow." 

"For  God's  sake,  hush,"  she  warned  him,  in 
a  quick,  frightened  whisper.  "Don't  'ee  talk 
so  loud,  Jack,  or  folk  'ull  overhear  an'  vind  out 
all." 

They  were  on  the  footpath  leading  across  the 
same  ploughed  ground  where  last  harvest  they 
sat  and  talked  behind  the  sheaves.  To  all  ap- 
pearance they  did  but  walk  out  round  together 
as  lovers  should.  For  Sunday  was  come  once 
more,  with  its  rest  from  work  and  a  sound  of 
church-bells  rising  and  falling  upon  the  wind. 
Already,  though  it  was  full  early,  folk  were 
making  their  way  along  the  road  up  the  hill. 

Ever  and  again  they  glanced  at  the  little 


300  A  Tangled  Web 

graveyard  on  the  knoll  in  expectation  and  in 
fear. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  Presently,  a 
small  procession  began  to  slowly  climb  the 
flight  of  stone  steps  up  the  steep.  Like  a  fu- 
neral it  looked  of  some  poor  body  who  has  left 
no  mourners.  In  front  walked  the  parson,  and 
with  him  one  from  Wincanton  who  was  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace.  Then  followed  a  coffin, 
carried  on  a  bier,  but  covered  by  a  pall  that  hid 
the  heads  of  the  bearers  too.  But  all  the  folk 
who  watched  were  held  back  for  the  time  being 
outside  the  gate. 

Young  Jack  shuddered  at  the  sight.  He  him- 
self was  pale  as  death;  and  so  was  Ursie,  too, 
though  she  gave  no  other  sign  of  weakness,  but 
stood  firm  and  did  not  even  tremble  or  so  much 
as  falter  in  her  speech. 

"  'Tis  no  good  for  'ee  to  talk,  Ursie/'  he 
cried,  again,  waving  his  hands  in  helplessness 
and  despair.  "I  can't.  I  tell  'ee  I  can't.  I'll 
run  away  out  o'  all  reach."  And  he  turned  his 
face  from  Bratton,  and  took  some  steps  along 
the  path,  as  if  to  suit  the  deed  to  the  word. 

"Ah,"  she  sighed.  "An'  that's  how  things 
afore  now  have  a-bin  brought  to  light,  when 


The  Ordeal  301 

they  mid  ha'  bin  kep'  dark  till  doomsday.  I 
tell  'ee,  Jack,  'tis  nothing  but  jus'  to  go  an'  lay 
your  vinger  on  the  hand  o'  un.  "Pis  no  truth 
in  what  they  do  tell  up.  An'  when  'tis  done, 
they'll  bury  un,  an'  all  'ull  be  forgot." 

That  was  true.  In  the  afternoon  they  were 
to  bury  the  unclaimed  dead,  and  so  the  talk 
about  it  all  would  end. 

The  friends  of  him  who  was  missing  up  the 
country  had  been  down  to  Wincanton  to  find 
only  a  stranger  never  before  seen.  Not  the 
slightest  clue  had  the  constables  got  hold  of  to 
guide  them  to  the  discovery  of  the  crime.  The 
dead  body,  so  great-uncle  Tutchins  had  said, 
might  have  been  carried  a  "hunderd  mile  for  all 
anybeddy  could  tell."  There  was  nothing,  no 
writing  in  any  of  the  pockets,  no  sign  of  any- 
thing with  a  word  upon  it,  to  tell  them  where 
to  ask  or  make  their  search.  The  clothes  were 
new — a  jacket,  breeches,  and  hose  of  sheep-grey 
yarn,  such  as  were  worn  by  yeomen  and  the 
better  class  of  husbandmen — fresh  bought  with 
the  creases  scarcely  worn  away,  but  with  no 
name  of  the  tailor  by  whom  the  seams  were 
sewn.  For  craftsmen  lived  out  of  their  neigh- 
bours of  those  days,  and  little  thought  of  send- 


302  A  Tangled  Web 

ing  their  names  far  abroad  to  bring  in  work. 
In  the  fob  was  a  silver  watch — but  that  was 
made  in  France.  It  only  added  another  doubt 
by  seeming  to  show  that  robbery  was  not  at  the 
bottom  of  the  crime. 

So,  after  all  said  and  done,  there  was  no  more 
left  to  do  but  to  lay  these  relics  upon  one  side  in 
readiness  for  some  other  proof  which  would 
never  come,  and  lay  the  body  underground.  In 
Bratton  parish  it  had  been  found,  and  to  Brat- 
ton  it  must  be  brought  back  to  be  buried. 
There  was  but  one  small  chance;  and  that,  as 
everybody  felt,  could  but  make  it  clear  that  no 
guilt  lay  upon  Bratton  folk.  As  to  bringing 
home  the  murder  to  him  who  did  it,  nobody  so 
much  as  dreamt  of  that.  It  could  never  be 
found  out,  so  everybody  said. 

There  was  an  old,  lingering  belief — some- 
what fallen  into  disuse  of  late,  but  still  firmly 
held  in  far-off  parts  of  the  country — that,  at  the 
touch  of  the  murderer,  or  even  in  his  presence, 
the  wounds  of  a  murdered  man  would  break 
out  and  bleed  afresh.  Great  beads  of  sweat  had 
been  known  to  rise  upon  the  dead  man's  fore- 
head, ay,  and  run  down  upon  his  brow,  so  many 
a  ballad  song  and  chap-book  set  down  in  print. 


The  Ordeal  303 

Quite  a  number,  even  of  the  bettermost  people, 
believed  this  still;  so  that,  although  some 
thought  the  Queen's  judges  would  not  take  it 
for  proof  in  law,  many  more  stuck  out  that  it 
ought  to  be  done.  It  was  God's  way,  so  Riz- 
pah  had  said  overnight,  to  bring  the  hidden  ill- 
doer  to  justice ;  and  then  she  spoke  the  text  that 
"whoso  sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man  shall  his 
blood  be  shed."  Jacob  Handsford  was  the  only 
one  in  Bratton  to  sneer  when  yesterday  the 
word  had  been  sent  round  that  every  male 
above  sixteen  should  undergo  this  ordeal  as  he 
passed  on  Sunday  morning  into  the  village 
church.  It  must  be  the  devil  then,  sure  enough, 
he  scoffed,  for  more  than  once  a  corpse  had  bled 
anew  at  touch  of  one  who  had  never  been  near 
the  place.  "Ay,  an'  one  time  at  the  pa'son  his- 
zelf — he !  he ! — when  he  reached  out  his  han'  to 
lift  off  the  cloth." 

"  "Tis  but  this,"  the  girl  went  on,  with  grow- 
ing eagerness,  "an'  then  all  'ull  be  done  wi'  an' 
safe.  Look,  they've  a'most  a-got  it  ready  there 
by  the  porch,  close  handy  to  the  path.  Jack, 
I  tell  'ee  't  'ull  be  tookt  note  o'  that  we  do  bide 
away  so  long.  'Tis  out  o'  all  reason — for 
everybeddy  is  there  an'  some  from  other  places, 


304  A  Tangled  Web 

too.  They'll  suspect  something,  Jack;  I  know 
they  will.  Come  on ;  you  ought  to  ha'  been  the 
first." 

In  her  anxiety  she  caught  hold  of  him,  as  if 
to  drag  him  along  the  path.  Half  yielding  to 
this  new  fear,  but  half  out  of  his  habit  of  trust- 
ing to  Ursula,  he  suffered  her  to  lead  him 
back  towards  the  village.  Then  he  stopped. 

"Ursie,  I  can  never  look  upon  un,"  he 
moaned. 

"There's  no  need.  You  have  but  to  put  out 
your  han'  as  you  do  pass  by." 

"  'Twere  so  dark,"  he  faltered  in  a  low  voice, 
"that  I've  never  a-zeed  un.  He'll  draw  my 
eyes  to  un,  Ursie,  though  I  could  scarce  dare  to 
look." 

"  'Tis  but  a  minute,"  she  went  on,  pleading 
at  first,  but  growing  impatient  that  he  should  be 
so  weak,  "an'  then  all  the  trouble  over  for  good. 
An'  what  can  this  be  after  what  you  have 
a-done  afore  ?  Why,  you  carried  un  whilst  he 
wur  still  warm,  an'  now  he's  cold  more  'an  a 
week.  Would  'ee  be  such  a  eoward  that  you 
can't  so  much  as  lay  finger-tip  to  un  ?" 

He  winced  as  she  called  him  that,  and  once 
more  thev  walked  on. 


The  Ordeal  305 

"But  what  if  the  blood  should  run  ?"  he  pres- 
ently gasped.  That  was  real  dread,  and  at 
thought  of  it  all  his  strength  fled,  his  knees 
bent,  and  his  hands  shook. 

"I  tell  'ee  'tis  but  a  trap  to  catch  a  guilty 
heart  wi'  fear  that  have  a-bin  gied  up  in  most 
parts  years  agone,"  she  said,  quietly,  to  give 
him  courage.  "Be  a  man,  Jack.  Why,  what 
is  it  a-told  up  about  Master  Babb,  o'  Chard,  that 
killed  the  widow-ooman?  He  ran  away  an* 
zo  it  all  came  out.  An'  what  o'  he  in  the  zong, 
then,  that  shook  an'  trembled  like  a  leaf,  an', 
sooner  'an  touch  the  body,  fell  down  an'  told 
all  there-right.  'Tis  but  to  keep  up  a  good 
heart  for  a  minute,  Jack — just  to  talk  to  the 
folk  as  you  do  pass,  an'  hurry  in  the  virst  an' 
out  again.  For  there's  no  need  to  go  to  church. 
Nobeddy  'ull  expect  it.  An'  we'll  come  out  in 
the  fields,  Jack,  happy  to  think  that  there's  no 
more  to  be  thought  o'.  Come — afore  we  be 
missed ;  there's  no  time  to  spare." 

"I'll  do  it,  Ursie,  come  what  may,"  he  cried, 
with  sudden  boldness.  But  though  her  words 
had  brought  him  to  the  point,  his  spirit  still 
quailed  within.  He  paused  a  moment.  Then 
he  looked  blankly  into  her  face.  There  came  a 


306  A  Tangled  Web 

hopelessness  into  his  eyes  as  again  he  put  his 
fear  into  words :  "An'  if  they  do  mark  anything 
in  my  countenance  or  gait,  zo  it  mus'  be." 

In  a  twinkling  he  had  again  cast  fear  aside, 
and  was  ready  to  go  on — ready  with  the  reck- 
less courage  that  belonged  to  his  nature.  But 
his  weakness  and  uncertainty  of  mind  in  pres- 
ence of  the  rites  that  went  beyond  things  living, 
as  it  were,  into  the  other  world  filled  her  with 
alarm.  In  her  heart  also  was  a  doubt.  But 
the  outcome  and  the  upshot  of  not  going  stood 
clear  before  her  brain.  He  would  be  missed — 
sent  for — brought,  after  all,  and  watched — 
watched  with  a  narrowness  of  expectation  that 
could  see  even  more  than  there  was. 

"I  tell  'ee  what,  Jack  dear,"  she  said,  moved 
by  a  sudden  impulse  of  pity  and  love,  "if  't  'ull 
do  'ee  any  good  I'll  go  along  wi'  'ee.  I'll  walk 
straight  up  an'  stand  there  by  your  zide.  "Full 
be  only  as  if  I  went  out  o'  cur'osity — an'  there's 
a-many  women-folk  'ull  do  that.  An'  I'll  just 
speak  a  word  to  'ee,  quiet  like,  as  you  do  step 
on  to  the  grass." 

"If  you  'ull  but  do  it,  Ursie,  I'll  go  at  once," 
he  cried,  eagerly,  seizing  upon  her  offer  almost 
before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth.  "I'd 


The  Ordeal  307 

never  back  out,  nor  turn  tail,  if  you  was  by,  but 
go  on,  whatever  mid  hap.  I've  a-got  that  trust 
in  'ee,  Ursie,  that  what  you  do  say  is  right.  An' 
you  don't  believe  in  it  yourself,  do  'ee?  Nor 
your  vather,  Ursie  ?  Zo  you  said " 

She  stopped  him  in  his  anxious  talk  and 
stepped  in  front  to  look  at  him. 

"You  be  all  in  a  zweat,"  she  said,  "wi'  the 
thought  o'  it.  Here,  let  I  wipe  your  forehead 
an'  your  cheeks  with  the  corner  o'  my  necker- 
cher,  afore  we  do  meet  wi'  a  soul.  An'  look  up 
cheerful  like.  For  anyway,  no  harm  can  come. 
If  nothing  should  hap,  that's  a  proof.  An'  if 
it  should,  why,  stand  bold.  For  it  can  but  show 
false  in  the  minds  o'  all — no  reason  an'  no  link 
to  hold  'ee  to  it,  as  mid  zay.  There's  nothing 
'pon  earth  can  hurt  'ee,  Jack,  but  yourself,  for 
certain  sure.  Come,  look-y-zee,  they've  a-oped 
the  gate  for  folks  to  go  up." 

"Come  on  then,  Ursie,"  he  said,  his  mind 
now  fully  made  up.  "When  all's  said  an'  done, 
there's  none  'ull  take  note  o'  we  any  more  than 
the  rest." 

They  hurried  along  the  path  towards  the  vil- 
lage street.  Even  to  be  late,  when  everybody 
was  so  full  of  wonder  and  eagerness  to  see, 


308  A  Tangled  Web 

might  look  strange  and  call  for  some  comment, 
if  only  in  joke.  By  the  time  they  came  down 
into  the  road  all  the  people  had  slowly  filed 
up  into  the  church-yard,  and  were  standing 
in  groups  upon  the  path.  So  much  the  bet- 
ter after  all.  The  moment  was  too  solemn  for 
shaking  hands  and  talk.  Nobody  had  so  much 
as  a  word  or  a  look  for  Ursie  and  young  Jack, 
but  all  stood  there  in  silence,  the  men  bare- 
headed, the  women  with  parted  lips  and  pale, 
watching  as  one  after  another  stepped  forward 
in  his  turn. 

The  bier  had  been  placed  upon  the  grass  close 
by  the  church-door;  and  the  corpse,  wrapped  in 
woollen  cloth,  lay  in  an  uncovered  coffin  with  its 
face  and  hands  open  to  the  light.  The  parson, 
the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  the  constable, 
stood  upon  one  side  by  the  head  and  watched. 
One  after  another  the  villagers  lightly  touched 
the  murdered  man,  and,  passing  on,  waited  by 
the  entrance  to  the  porch.  And  slowly  the  cir- 
cle of  the  people  who  came  only  to  see  the  sight, 
overcoming  their  awe  of  death,  drew  closer  and 
closer  until  they  blocked  the  way,  and  now  and 
again  had  to  be  told  in  a  loud  voice  to  stand 
back. 


The  Ordeal  309 

For  a  minute  Jack  and  Ursula  waited  upon 
the  outskirts  of  the  throng. 

She  glanced  at  him.  His  lips  were  set  firm 
with  the  dogged  look  she  had  seen  at  times  be- 
fore, when,  at  cudgel-playing  or  wrestling,  he 
stood  up  before  a  man  he  knew  to  be  as  good 
or  better  than  himself.  In  the  deed  itself,  the 
thing  seemed  easier  than  when  only  thought 
upon  and  pictured  in  the  mind.  She  touched 
him  on  the  elbow.  Intent  on  what  he  saw  he 
gave  no  heed.  She  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve, 
and  beckoned  with  her  finger.  Then  they 
pushed  a  way  between  the  folk  and  came  to  the 
very  front. 

His  turn  had  come,  but  still  he  did  not  move. 

He  was  staring  upon  the  face  of  the  unknown 
man  whom  he  had  killed.  It  had  a  fascination 
for  him,  just  as  he  had  feared,  lying  there  in  its 
cerecloth  with  closed  eyes,  ashy  white.  On  the 
brow,  full  in  sight,  was  the  wound — with  blood 
about  it  still,  but  dark  and  black.  The  cheek- 
bones and  the  thin  nose  were  pitted  deep  with 
the  small-pox,  but  the  cheeks,  and  mouth,  and 
jaw,  were  hidden  in  a  moustache  and  beard 
clipped  short  and  close. 

He  stood  like  one  spell-bound,  though  the 


310  A  Tangled  Web 

Justice  made  a  sign  to  him  to  come.  He  looked 
dazed  and  perplexed,  as  if  scarcely  knowing 
what  he  did,  where  he  was,  or  what  he  looked 
upon. 

Was  he  going  to  break  down,  now,  at  the 
last  ?  Ursula's  heart  sank.  She  spoke  to  him, 
quickly,  in  a  whisper : — 

"Now — Jack — 'tis  you." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  started,  and 
stepped  sullenly  towards  the  bier. 

An  awful  fear  gripped  her  around  the  heart. 
God !  If  what  folk  said  was  true,  and  the  blood 
should  flow !  Her  breath  came  fast.  She  felt 
like  to  fall;  but  she  pressed  one  hand  tight 
against  her  side,  and  followed  him  only  a  pace 
or  so  behind.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
wound.  Already  it  looked  to  her  to  moisten 
as  they  drew  near. 

Now  that  he  was  brought  to  the  pinch,  Jack 
White,  without  wavering,  stretched  out  his  arm 
to  touch. 

The  air  was  still  and  soft.  There  was  neither 
sound  nor  movement  in  the  crowd  as  he  quickly 
stretched  forth  his  hand  with  less  of  care  than 
any  of  the  rest,  and  tapped  with  his  fingers  on 
the  white,  shining  knuckles  of  the  dead. 


The  Ordeal  311 

t- 

Suddenly,  close  by  his  shoulder,  arose  a 
shriek. 

Then  it  was  all  true !  The  blood  had  come 
afresh !  The  dead  had  told  his  tale  and  every- 
thing was  found  out. 

He  staggered  back.  He  turned,  and  would 
have  run,  but  Ursula  was  already  clinging  to 
him;  though  her  face,  turned  from  him,  still 
stared  upon  the  bier. 

"  'Tis  William,"  she  screamed,  her  voice  wild 
with  terror.  "Poor  William — on  his  way  home 
unbeknown — that  you  have  a-killed." 

At  once,  there  was  an  upstore  everywhere. 
"What,  William— It  can't  be  William  White 
— Though  'tis  his  hair — an'  height — an'  fore- 
head— "  Some  laid  hands  upon  young  Jack. 
Some  ran  to  Ursula,  who  had  fallen,  sobbing 
and  wringing  her  hands,  upon  the  ground. 
And  some  cried  out  to  fetch  Rizpah,  who,  sure 
enough,  must  know  her  own  son,  and  was  com- 
ing at  that  moment,  book  in  hand,  across  the 
field. 

But  the  truth,  once  spoken,  stood  beyond  all 
doubt.  Malachi  Webb,  always  the  foremost, 
stepped  up  to  look.  Below  the  cheek-bone,  but 
hidden  now  under  the  new-grown  hair,  was  the 


312  A  Tangled  Web 

scar  brought  back  from  an  earlier  voyage.  And 
though  the  face  was  thin  with  illness — and  the 
features  out  of  all  knowledge  disfigured  and 
changed,  pitted  thick  and  deep  with  the  small- 
pox— there  was  not  one  of  Bratton  who  could 
not  say  without  doubt  that  this  was  William 
White. 

Ay,  and  it  was  clear  to  see,  too,  why  William 
White  had  stayed  away  with  no  word  sent. 
Lying  at  death's  door,  like  enough,  for  weeks, 
and  laid  aside  for  months,  how  was  he  to  write 
or  send?  Illness  had  made  him  another  man. 
Even  his  own  mother  would  scarce  know  him 
now.  And  Rizpah,  who  had  stayed  away  from 
the  grim  sight-seeing,  was  hard  by  on  her  way 
to  church.  Make  room  for  Rizpah — break  it 
to  her  gently,  sure.  Poor  woman — little  bet- 
ter than  twelve  months  a  widow — and  to  have 
such  sorrow  wi'  her  sons. 

And  all  the  while,  above  the  hum  and  buzz  of 
voices,  arose  the  moan  of  Ursula,  sometimes 
growing  into  a  shriek,  that  it  was  William,  and 
then  sinking  into  a  wail  as  she  cried  and  sobbed 
for  young  Jack. 

She  had  found  him  courage  to  come  there 
and  face  the  ordeal,  to  fail  him  at  the  last. 


BOOK  III 


BOOK  III 


RlZPAH 

A  year  and  more  had  passed,  and  sad  changes 
had  fallen  upon  Winterhays. 

Again  it  was  near  midsummer,  the  very  day 
o'  the  month  upon  which,  at  early  daybreak, 
William  had  set  out  to  sea,  two  years  agone.  It 
was  the  hour  of  twilight,  too,  but  not  as  then 
of  dewy  dawn.  The  west  above  the  hill  was 
broken  into  fierce  rifts.  Crimson  light  ran  up 
into  the  sky,  pierced  the  walls  of  purple  cloud, 
and  cast  a  blood-red  glow  upon  the  masses  over- 
head. It  was  the  last  clutching  after  life  of  a 
long  and  passionate  day. 

Again  there  was  hay  in  the  pook  in  the  home- 
field  and  also  in  the  meadow  at  the  back  of 
Jacob  Handsford's  barn.  There  had  been  a 
heavy  tempest  during  the  afternoon  that  had 
brought  all  work  to  a  standstill,  and  spoilt  the 


316  A  Tangled  Web 

greater  part  already  done.  Early  in  the  day, 
huge,  threatening  mountains  of  leaden  cloud, 
sun-capped  against  the  pale  blue  sky,  arose 
above  the  hill-tops,  so  that  there  was  much  ado 
to  rake  the  grass  together  before  the  coming 
storm  should  break.  For  hours  the  jagged 
lightning  played  and  thunder  rattled  all  along 
the  ridge,  with  scarce  a  breath  o'  wind  or  drop 
o'  rain  to  cool  the  sultry  air.  Then  a  whirlwind, 
chilly  and  cold,  came  rushing  down  the  open 
space  by  the  cross-roads  and  swept  the  valley 
round.  The  clouds  burst.  A  sudden  torrent 
poured  that  drenched  the  running  work-folk  to 
the  skin.  And  so  by  eventide  the  storm  wore 
out  its  strength  and  passed  into  a  moaning  rum- 
ble far  away. 

Then  everybody  ran  out  o'  house  to  look 
about  and  eye  out  what  harm  was  done;  for 
here  and  there  a  chimney-tun  had  been  blown 
down  or  the  thatch  torn  away  at  a  pointing-end. 

Jacob,  as  fast  as  he  could  set  foot  to  ground, 
went  shuffling  up  to  Winterhays  alone.  He 
was  always  alone  since  Ursula  was  gone;  for 
folk,  one  and  all,  had  made  up  their  minds  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  such  a  thing  of  a  fel- 
low. Not  a  neighbour,  young  or  old,  would 


Rizpah  3 1 7 

so  mucfi  as  pass  the  time  o'  day  with  the  man  as 
he  went  down  street.  Children,  who  could  little 
more  than  lisp,  called  "skin-flint"  to  his  face, 
and  boys,  just  big  enough  to  run,  thought  it  a 
good  deed  to  throw  a  stone  after  little  Jakey 
Handsford  so  soon  as  ever  his  back  was  turned. 
So  there  was  no  comfort  in  it,  though  he  had 
won  what  he  craved. 

There  is  nothing  so  slow  to  grow,  but  noth- 
ing so  deep  of  root  and  long  in  dying  out,  as  the 
ill-will  of  a  village.  Jacob  felt  very  sad  at 
heart  as  he  hurried  up  the  hill.  For  great- 
uncle  Tutchins  and  Malachi  Webb  were  stand- 
ing below  the  churchyard  as  he  turned  into  the 
field.  He  could  see  by  their  looks  that  some- 
thing had  gone  awry,  and  his  quick  ear  caught 
the  sound  of  their  laughter  just  as  he  slammed 
back  the  little  kiss-gate  and  stepped  in  upon 
the  path.  "Ha!"  muttered  Jacob  to  himself, 
"there's  no  such  thing  as  good-fellowship  left 
'pon  the  face  o'  the  earth,  I  do  declare."  No 
matter  what  damage  might  be  done,  well 
enough  he  knew  that  nobody  would  lend  him  a 
helping  hand.  And  he  able  to  buy  up  both  o' 
the  fellows  and  then  look  round  for  more. 

He  had  got  hold  of  the  farm  that  he  cov- 


318  A  Tangled  Web 

eted  after  all;  but  so  far  it  had  brought  him 
nothing  but  trouble.  Rizpah  went  out  at 
Milemas  last,  and  ever  since  then  the  house 
lay  empty.  What  good  was  the  land  to 
her — with  William  killed  and  laid  to  rest, 
and  young  Jack  where  they  had  put  him  at 
the  cross-roads  just  on  the  brow  of  the  ridge, 
for  all  the  world  to  see?  Glad  enough  was 
she  to  give  it  up  and  creep  into  the  little  cot- 
tage hard  by  the  high-road.  "For  certain  sure, 
she  had  money  a  plenty  now,"  so  great-uncle 
Tutchins  and  cousin  Simon  Mogg  agreed.  She 
could  never  want  so  much  as  a  penny-piece  of 
any  living  soul,  not  if  she  did  live  to  a  hunderd. 
No,  no.  For  wi'  what  belonged  to  both  o'  the 
boys,  so  well  as  her  own  share,  she  was  so  sure 
o'  to-morrow's  bread  as  she  was  o'  to-morrow's 
daylight.  "Jus'  the  very  same,"  said  great- 
uncle  Tutchins.  "  'T'ud  be  nothing  but  a 
friendly  act  and  kind  and  prudent  to  get  the 
poor  ooman  to  choose  executors  and  draw  up 
a  bit  of  a  will,"  suggested  thoughtful  cousin 
Simon  Mogg.  "An'  la!  she  do  really  want 
some  near  relative  to  take  her  money  to  use  an' 
pay  the  interest  regular-like,  wi'  no  thought  or 
trouble  to  herself  like."  That  was  the  sort  of 


Rizpah  319 

gossip  that  took  place  when  Rizpah  went  out 
and  Jacob  came  into  Winterhays — and  a  good 
job,  too. 

But  Ursula  was  alive  at  that  time,  for  it  was 
not  until  the  new  year  that  she  was  taken,  and 
Jacob  had  been  driven  to  his  wits'  end  to  know 
what  to  do  since  then. 

He  hurried  across  the  field  and  stood  before 
the  tenantless  homestead.  No  matter  how 
little  he  asked,  he  could  get  no  one  to  take  the 
house  without  the  land,  and  no  one  to  live  in  it 
and  work  for  him.  They  would  not  take  it  at 
a  gift  to  be  under  Jacob,  so  folk  said.  And 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  it  worrited  him  most 
wonderful  to  know  the  place  empty,  day  after 
day,  and  week  after  week,  when  it  ought  to  be 
bringing  in  a  few  shillings,  if  only,  as  he  grum- 
bled to  himself,  to  pay  the  outs.  For  keep  it  up 
he  must.  That  he  was  bound  to  do  in  black 
and  white.  "Ha !  an'  things  out  o'  use  do  run 
to  disrepair  more  than  they  do  wear  out  wi' 
hard  usage,"  daily  he  kept  snarling  to  himself. 
But  when  he  first  clapped  eyes  upon  Winter- 
hays,  to-night,  he  stopped  and  raised  his  hands 
and  looked  aghast. 

The  old  place  had  stood  right  in  the  stroke 


320  A  Tangled  Web 

of  the  wind.  Some  weeks  ago,  the  mischiev- 
ous toads  of  boys  had  unhung  and  carried  away 
the  garden  hatch  and  broken  all  the  window- 
panes  with  stones ;  and  now  came  the  tempest 
and  all  the  roof  was  a  ruin.  For  the  gale  had 
got  under  the  broad  eaves  and  stripped  off  the 
thatch,  leaving  the  rafters  bare  as  bones.  The 
chimneys  at  the  gable  ends  were  carried  away 
and  red  bricks  lay  strewn  and  broken  all  across 
the  garden  plot.  The  old  pear  tree  in  the  cor- 
ner was  blown  down  and  had  fallen  against  the 
wall.  The  old  home  of  Winterhays  that  had 
covered  the  Whites  for  so  many  generations 
looked  no  better  than  a  wreck. 

Little  Jacob  Handsford  stamped  his  feet  and 
tore  his  hair. 

Then  he  fell  to  raving. 
"God's  life !  but  a  pretty  penny  it  must  cost 
to  put  all  straight — an'  that's  good  money  after 
bad,  wi'  not  so  much  as  a  varden  to  be  got  out 
o'  it  all,  whatever  mid  be  spent.  Ha!  sure 
enough,  there's  work  an'  pay  for  the  thatcher, 
an'  the  mason,  an'  the  glazier — an'  all  out  o' 
one  pocket,  too — all  out  o'  Jacob  Handsford's. 
An'  the  place  a-bought  so  dear  as  vire,  too — so 
dear  as  vire — so  dear  as  vire." 


Rizpah  321 

In  his  excitement,  still  repeating  these  words, 
he  began  to  wander  aimlessly  around  the  dis- 
mantled house.  He  crossed  behind  the  cow- 
stalls  towards  the  orchard,  but  it  was  only  to 
pass  from  one  damage  to  another.  More  than 
a  score  of  apple  trees,  thick  in  leaf  and  heavy- 
laden  with  green,  new-kerned  fruit,  had  been 
blown  down — and  then  to  see  the  hurt  they  had 
done,  tearing  and  breaking  the  limbs  of  others 
in  their  fall.  Three  tall  elm  trees  that  grew  in 
the  bank  of  a  hedge-row  ditch,  torn  up  by  the 
roots,  had  fallen,  crashing  into  a  piece  of  wheat. 
"Ha !  How  be  they  to  be  got  at  ?  How  be  they 
to  be  got  at  ?"  Jacob  asked  the  question  again 
and  again,  but  could  find  no  answer. 

He  stayed  there  until  dusk  was  falling,  and 
homestead,  trees,  and  orchard  became  wrapped 
in  gloom.  He  could  do  no  good — no  good  at 
all.  He  would  be  out  o'  pocket — out  o'  pocket 
after  all  his  pains.  Jacob  Handsford  pitied 
himself  with  all  his  heart.  After  the  way  he 
had  thought,  and  schemed,  and  worked,  and 
saved,  that  everything  he  had  put  hand  to 
should  go  so  much  awry.  Ah !  all  this  trouble 
was  the  only  reward  he  got  for  being  so  prudent 
and  thrifty.  He  might  just  as  well  get  home  at 


322  A  Tangled  Web 

once  and  see  what  Hannah  Peach  was  about. 
He  got  his  village  news  from  Hannah,  too ;  for 
she  was  the  only  soul  he  had  to  speak  to  since 
Ursula  died  at  the  turn  of  the  new  year. 

But  what  was  that  Hannah  was  telling  up  the 
other  night  ?  Once  or  twice  of  late,  in  his  per- 
plexity, his  mind  had  run  upon  Rizpah  White. 
Sure,  when  her  trouble  had  passed  over  awhile, 
she  would  be  looking  for  something  to  do.  If 
he  could  get  a  staid  woman  like  that,  and  honest 
and  respectable,  to  come  and  manage  for  him, 
it  would  pay  to  give  her  good  money  rather 
than  things  should  go  so  much  to  waste.  But 
Hannah  had  brought  in  strange  stories  about 
Rizpah  White.  Jacob  stopped  in  the  path  and 
thought.  There  came  upon  him  a  curiosity  to 
pry  out  and  learn  whether  the  things  said  were 
true. 

He  climbed  quietly  up  the  hill-side,  towards 
the  cross-roads,  close  by  the  gate  where  Rizpah 
sat  down  to  rest  and  think  that  Monday  when 
she  had  been  to  Wincanton  about  the  rent. 

It  was  lighter  on  the  hill  than  down  below. 
The  air  was  still  and  calm.  Long  strips  of 
cloud,  broken  up  and  left  behind  in  the  wake  of 
the  storm,  stretched  above  the  horizon,  one  over 


Rizpah  323 

the  other,  ragged-edged,  blood-red  and  livid, 
with  shafts  of  golden  light  bursting  between 
and  spreading  up  into  the  sky. 

He  stood  and  peered  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge. 

Upon  the  top  of  the  little  grassy  knoll  stood 
a  gibbet;  and  from  the  out-stretched  arm 
hung  a  shapeless  burden,  black  and  motionless 
against  the  brilliant  glory  of  the  passing  day. 
The  post,  upon  one  side,  was  all  aglow  with  the 
red  light,  and  glistening  too.  For  higher  than 
the  tallest  man  could  reach  it  was  studded  thick 
with  nails,  driven  so  close  together  that  never 
the  point  of  a  knife  could  get  between.  Above 
that  it  had  been  bound  with  iron  bands.  Sure 
enough,  it  was  put  there  to  stand,  maybe  a  hun- 
dred years,  till  wind  and  wet  had  eaten  all  its 
strength  away.  Nobody  could  cut  it  down,  or 
even  whittle  off  so  much  as  a  splinter  to  carry 
about  as  a  charm  against  toothache.  Thus  they 
had  hung  Jack  White,  on  the  tree  that  bears  no 
leaves,  a  warning  to  others,  for  all  the  world  to 
see. 

Without  a  shudder  Jacob  had  seen  this  grue- 
some sight  before,  even  in  broad  day,  had  heard 
the  chains  creak,  and  watched  the  body  swing 


324  A  Tangled  Web 

in  the  wind ;  but,  to-night,  in  the  growing  dark- 
ness, it  made  his  flesh  creep  to  look. 

At  the  foot  of  the  gallows  crouched  a  dark 
figure,  almost  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  further 
hedge.  His  eyes  could  not  clearly  make  out 
the  shape,  but  well  he  knew  it  could  be  none 
other  but  Rizpah  White.  To  and  fro  she 
moved,  a  step  at  a  time,  bent  down  and  stooping 
like  aged  poverty  under  the  bare  trees  gather- 
ing dead  sticks  for  firewood  after  a  winter  gale. 
She  went  peering  amongst  the  rank  nettles,  and 
feeling  with  her  fingers  in  the  wet  grass.  She 
still  wore  her  long  apron  which  she  held  to- 
gether in  her  left  hand.  Once  she  picked  some- 
thing up — one  of  the  dead  sticks  that  the  wind 
shakes  from  the  gibbet  tree — and  dropped  it 
within  the  folds.  Then  she  went  on  again, 
more  eager  than  before,  along  the  close  sward 
on  the  edge  of  the  highway. 

Jacob  Handsford  saw  and  understood.  It 
was  just  as  Hannah  had  brought  in  word, 
only  the  maid  had  not  heard  all.  Folk  said 
that  Rizpah  sat  there  all  day  long,  watching 
to  keep  the  carrion-crows  away,  and  at  night 
crept  down  into  the  churchyard  and  knelt  an 
hour  beside  the  spot  where  William  lay. 


Rizpah  325 

"Ha!"  said  Jacob  to  himself.  "What! 
Ha'n't  Bratton  people  got  wit,  then,  to  zee  what 
the  ooman  is  about  ?"  He  did  not  understand 
that  the  neighbours  did  not  want  to  see.  That 
churchwardens,  constables,  even  the  pa'son 

himself  said  "Let  her  be."     What  harm  if  the 

t 

bones  of  the  brothers  lay  together  in  one  grave  ? 
They  must  both  rise  before  God  at  the  Judg- 
ment Day.  And  nobody  had  any  need  to  know 
what  Rizpah  was  doing,  for  nobody  had  any 
call  to  look. 

But  the  prying  into  any  secret  thing  had  a 
fascination  for  Jacob.  The  better  to  watch,  he 
caught  hold  of  a  hazel  stick  to  drag  himself 
higher  into  the  hedge.  With  a  sharp  sound  the 
twig  snapped  off  in  his  hand. 

In  a  moment  Rizpah  stood  upright,  looked 
eagerly  around  her,  turned  her  head  and 
glanced  over  her  shoulder  down  the  road  be- 
hind her  back.  Nobody  did  she  see.  She 
hastily  hid  away  the  one  bone  she  had  found 
under  the  neckercher  upon  her  bosom.  Then 
she  let  fall  the  apron,  pulled  her  knitting  from 
her  pocket,  and,  as  if  she  had  no  purpose  in 
being  there,  humbly  set  to  work.  But  it  was 
quite  late.  Kites  and  crows  had  flown  home 


326  A  Tangled  Web 

to  their  rocks  and  roosting  trees.  There  was 
no  more  that  night  for  Rizpah  to  wait  for,  and 
she  presently  stepped  off  the  sward  and  took  her 
way  slowly  down  the  village. 

As  she  came  to  the  gap  her  eye  fell  upon 
Jacob  Handsford.  She  stopped  mid-road  and 
stared,  not  able,  in  the  gloom,  to  make  out  who 
was  there.  She  took  two  steps  toward  him 
and  craned  forward  with  her  head.  Then, 
though  he  had  been  prying  all  his  life,  some- 
thing crept  over  Jacob  that  made  him  feel  un- 
easy, if  not  ashamed.  He  crept  noiselessly 
down  the  bank  and  stole  homewards  under 
cover  of  the  hedge.  Presently,  Rizpah  also 
went  on  her  way,  not  knowing  who  had 
watched  her,  and  half  in  doubt  whether  he 
had  seen. 

But  when  Jacob  came  opposite  the  church- 
yard steps  he  loitered. 

"Ha !  'Tis  a  wonder,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, "that  nobody  do  look  into  what  the  ooman 
is  about.  Or  where's  the  good  o'  living  honest  ? 
Where's  the  good  o'  law  an'  example,  if  the 
ooman  is  to  do  as  she  do  like,  an'  the  rogue  to 
rest  wi'  the  Christian  after  all?  There's  they 
about  don't  think  much  o'  their  duty  to  let  it  go 


Rizpah  327 

on.  For  'tis  plain  as  a  pike-staff  to  any  but  a 
fool.  Ha!  ha!  Tis,  sure."  Yet,  after  all, 
what  did  it  matter  to  him,  and  if  Rizpah  could 
be  got  to  keep  house  after  a  while,  when 

His  ear  caught  a  sound  at  the  churchyard 
gate.  Then  there  was  silence ;  and  then  Rizpah 
went  stealthily  creeping  up  the  stone  steps.  At 
the  top  she  waited  awhile,  glanced  down  the 
village  street,  and  listened.  All  the  earth  was 
sweet  and  fragrant,  and  folk  were  glad  to  be 
out  of  doors,  after  the  rain.  From  below  came 
a  chorus  of  children's  voices  singing  to  their 
game.  At  the  nearest  cottage  a  boy  was  sitting 
on  the  threshold  playing  upon  a  pipe.  A  dog 
was  barking  and  there  were  voices  and  laughter 
far  away.  But  in  all  this  was  nothing  to  make 
Rizpah  afraid.  Bratton  was  but  enjoying  its 
leisure  evening  hour  of  talk  and  merriment  be- 
fore going  to  rest. 

She  went  upon  the  sward  and  passed  between 
the  headstones.  Then  by  William's  grave  she 
stopped  again. 

In  the  mind  of  Jacob  was  no  thought  of  doing 
her  harm.  All  the  same  it  was  not  right  and 
ought  not  to  be  allowed ;  for  there  could  be  no 
security  for  property  if  the  law  were  not  to  be 


328  A  Tangled  Web 

carried  out.  But  there  were  they  whose  place 
and  duty  it  was  to  look  to  that.  It  did  not  fall 
upon  him.  Oh  no !  Jacob  was  bent  in  mind 
only  to  see  all,  and  then,  for  his  own  ends,  to 
hold  his  tongue. 

"Who's  that?" 

Rizpah  had  seen  him.  And  again  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  half  anger  and  half  alarm,  she  called 
across  the  road. 

"Who's  that  ?  What  then,  is  it  come  to  this, 
that  a  poor  lone  body  can't  creep  away  to  spend 
a  minute  in  peace  beside  her  own  dead,  but  one 
or  another  mus'  come  poking  roun'  to  stan'  an' 
pry  upon  her  grief  ?" 

Jacob  made  no  answer.  He  had  nothing  to 
say.  Yet  he  was  doing  no  harm — there  in  the 
field,  his  own  field  now  that  he  had  got  Win- 
terhays.  Heart  alive!  Things  had  come  to 
something  then,  if  a  man  might  not  stand  at 
will  in  his  own  field. 

The  widow  strode  forward  to  the  church 
wall.  Only  the  narrow  road  lay  between 
them,  and  now  she  could  make  out  the  little 
pinched  figure  and  short  stature  of  Jacob. 
Nobody  else  in  Bratton  was  so  small  as  he. 

The  memory  of  all  the  anxious  heart-burn- 


Rizpah  329 

ing  and  striving  doubt  that  she  had  suffered 
during  the  last  two  years  came  back  upon  her: 
And  everywhere,  underneath  it  all,  like  a  warp 
upon  which  the  sorrows  of  her  life  had  been 
woven,  ran  the  strands  of  Jacob  Handsford's 
avarice  and  craft.  He  had  done  it  all — he, 
with  his  holding-back  and  under-creeping. 
And  now  he  came  to  peep  at  her — perhaps  to 
tell. 

Her  tongue  was  loosened.  The  brooding 
misery  of  the  months  that  she  had  watched, 
and  sat  in  solitude,  and  wept  at  the  foot  of  the 
gibbet-post  found  utterance.  The  words  came 
quick  and  fast,  she  knew  not  whence.  She 
had  never  even  thought  clearly  the  things  she 
now  said,  though  they  had  long  lain  unbe- 
known in  her  heart. 

"But  there's  no  need  to  ask  'who's  that,' " 
she  cried,  and,  as  she  raised  her  voice,  it  rang 
sharp  and  loud  across  the  quiet  valley.  "For 
there  is  but  one  in  Bratton,  or  in  all  the  length 
an'  breadth  o'  the  whole  land  for  that,  that  'ud 
come  to  look  at  a  poor  soul  in  trouble,  as  if  mid 
be  a  show.  An'  that's  Jacob  Handsford — lit- 
tle Jakey  Handsford — wi'  a  heart  that  never 
harboured  a  kind  thought  for  a  neighbour  out 


330  A  Tangled  Web 

o'  luck;  an'  never  brought  so  much  as  a  stale 
crust  to  gi'e  to  the  hungry  poor ;  an'  never  paid 
a  penny-piece  well  owed  'ithout  a  groan  to 
think  that  they  mus'  part." 

For  a  moment  she  paused.  The  cottage  boy 
had  ceased  to  blow  his  pipe,  and  was  stealing 
unseen  on  tiptoe  up  the  road.  The  village 
gossip  and  the  laughter,  too,  were  stilled.  It 
was  as  if  the  whole  hillside  had  hushed  to 
listen. 

"But  He  whose  eye  do  look  through  all 
things,  an'  can  zee  the  truth  that  do  underlie  the 
outside  show,  He  do  know  all  the  ill  that  do  lie 
at  your  door,  Jacob  Handsford.  An'  as  you've 
a-lived  for  yourzelf,  so  He'll  lef  'ee  to  die  alone, 
when  you  ha'n't  a-got  so  much  as  the  sweet 
memory  of  a  friend  under  the  sod.  The  maid 
that  wur  yours  you  cast  away  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  pounds.  You've  a-had  never  a  thought  o' 
any  good  in  your  life  but  saving,  Jacob  Hands- 
ford  ;  till  now  you  ha'n't  a-got  so  much  as  a  soul 
to  save.  For  you've  a-zold  yourzelf,  morning, 
noon,  an'  night,  for  money.  You've  never  a- 
had  no  soul  above  money  all  the  days  o'  your 
grown-up  life.  Never  so  much  as  vive  min- 
utes free  to  yourzelf  an'  they  around  'ee.  An* 


Rizpah  331 

you'll  live  to  be  more  lonesome,  for  want  o' 
what  you've  a-let  slip,  than  I  that  have  a-had 
all  I  ever  loved  a-snatched  away." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Great-uncle  Tutch- 
ins  and  Malachi  Webb  had  fallen  in  with  cousin 
Simon  Mogg  down  in  the  village,  and  they,  all 
three,  hearing  such  unwonted  flow  of  words, 
had  crept  up  also  and  stood  in  the  road  below. 
Jacob  they  could  not  see;  and  the  widow  also, 
high  above  them,  was  beyond  their  view.  It 
could  be  none  other  but  she.  Though  it  was 
not  like  Rizpah,  who  found  scarcely  a  word  for 
anybody  this  twelve-months  back.  It  was  like 
a  strange  voice  speaking  from  the  tombs. 

"Ay,  an'  then  all  the  death  an'  sorrow  that 
you've  a-brought  about  'ull  come  home  to  'ee. 
For  'tis  you  that  have  done  it  all — you,  Jacob 
Handsford — that  have  murdered  William — an' 
brought  young  Jack  to  the  gallis — an'  laid  Ur- 
sula in  her  shroud  when  she  might  ha'  bin  a 
mother,  happy  to  feel  the  babe  upon  her  breast. 
For  if  you  had  but  helped  her  she  would  ha' 
wed  wi'  William ;  or  if  you  had  but  gi'ed  her 
her  own,  there  need  ha'  been  no  call  to  wait,  and 
he  had  a-bin  here  living  an'  well-to-do  to-day. 
Look  at  it  how  you  will,  at  the  root  o'  it  'twere 


332  A  Tangled  Web 

you.  For  then  she  would  ha'  married  wi*  Jack, 
and  her  own  rightful  money  were  enough  to 
find  'em  a  home,  an'  they'd  a-loved  one  another 
an'  lived  happy  an'  honest  as  the  open  day,  an' 
thought  no  hurt  to  any  'pon  earth,  nor  wished 
no  harm.  For  they  only  thought  to  take  what 
belonged  to  'em,  that  you  couldn't  a-bear  to  let 
out  o'  your  hands.  You  an'  your  money. 
You've  a-done  it  all.  You've  a-builded  the 
gibbet  at  the  four  cross-roads,  an'  digged  the 
grave  for  poor  Ursula  that  broke  her  heart. 
'Tis  you — 'tis  you — only  you,  yourzelf.  An' 
now  you  do  come  to  walk  round  an'  look  upon 
your  work.  You  do  come  to  pry  upon  me,  as 
if  I  had  no  right  to  bide  by  day  wi'  my  boy 
they've  a-killed — or  to  creep  at  dark  to  beg  an' 
pray  o'  the  Almighty  to  gi'e  me  strength  to 
bear  it." 

However  wild  and  out  of  all  common-sense 
such  words  might  be,  they  made  Jacob  feel  ill 
at  ease.  That  he  had  held  back  Ursula's  money 
was  well  known,  and  Hannah  Peach  had  more 
than  once  brought  home  to  his  ears  what  the 
neighbours  had  said  about  that.  He  himself 
set  her  to  listen  and  let  him  know.  It  was  a 
good  thing  there  was  nobody  about  to-night 


Rizpah  333 

to  hear  all  this  that  Rizpah  had  bawled  out 
so  loud.  It  would  be  well  to  make  haste  in  out 
of  the  way — now,  whilst  she  had  stopped,  like 
enough  only  to  draw  breath  and  begin  again. 
If  he  were  gone,  she  would  say  no  more. 

He  hurried  to  the  stile  hard-by,  leading  down 
the  road.  But  as  he  passed  through,  in  his 
haste  to  be  gone,  he  ran  "full-but,"  as  they  say, 
into  the  very  arms,  as  it  were,  of  great-uncle 
Tutchins  and  Malachi  Webb.  Cousin  Simon 
Mogg  was  there,  too,  and  quite  a  crowd  be- 
sides, for  everybody  within  hearing  had  run  up, 
taking  all  care  not  to  make  the  very  "leastest 
sound,"  as  great-uncle  Tutchins,  in  a  whisper, 
warned  each  as  he  drew  nigh. 

To  find,  unlocked  for,  so  many  people,  Jacob 
stood  aghast.  They  stood  between  him  and  his 
house.  There  were  no  two  ways,  and  he  must 
face  it  out.  It  would  never  do  to  let  them  see 
that  he  took  to  heart  such  mad  talking  as  this. 
He  had  not  of  his  own  will  wasted  breath  to 
talk  to  a  neighbour  for  years,  but  now  he  put 
on  a  bold  front  and  stepped  up  to  Malachi 
Webb. 

"The  poor  ooman  is  beside  herzelf.  Her 
head's  a-turned.  'Tis  scand'lous  how  she  do 


334  A  Tangled  Web 

act,  to  my  mind.  She  did  ought  to  be  put 
away/'  he  said,  in  a  low,  confidential  whisper. 

But  Malachi  Webb  answered  aloud — 

"If  all  they  that  do  act  scand'lous  were  put 
away,  Mr.  Handsford,  Bratton  would  ha'  lost 
sight  o'  you  years  ago,"  he  said,  with  all  the 
dignity  of  a  man  who,  having  owed  money, 
has  paid  it  off.  Then  he  turned  upon  his  heel. 

But  Jacob  was  not  so  easily  to  be  put  off, 
particularly  by  a  twopenny-ha'penny  sort  of  a 
fellow  like  Malachi,  who  had  found  it  a  pretty 
tough  job  to  hold  his  head  above  water  for  more 
than  ten  years  past,  and  with  another  stroke 
o'  bad  luck  might  go  to  the  wall  any  day  o* 
the  week.  He  shuffled  forward  to  great-uncle 
Tutchins  and  cousin  Simon  Mogg,  who  stood 
together  close  by,  both  sound,  saving  house- 
holders, not  likely  to  be  led  away  by  foolish  talk. 

"How  d'ee  do,  Mr.  Tutchins?  And  how's 
Mr.  Tutchins  ?"  he  said,  trying  to  appear  at  ease 
and  holding  out  his  hand. 

Great-uncle  Tutchins  did  not  move.  He  did 
not,  according  to  all  accounts  afterwards  given 
in  Bratton,  so  much  as  offer  to  shake  hands. 
But  still,  the  night  was  almost  dark  and  he 
might  not  have  seen. 


Rizpah  335 

"Howd'eedo,  Mr.  Mogg?" 

Simon,  on  the  best  authority,  is  said  to  have 
given  a  bit  of  a  snort  and  to  have  tossed  his 
head  with  a  sniff.  But  he  said  nothing. 

Jacob  went  on,  speaking  to  neither  in  par- 
ticular but  to  both  at  once. 

"I  say  the  ooman  is  not  right,"  he  said,  in  his 
old,  sharp  rnanner.  "Do  vail  to  her  kin  to  look 
a'ter  her,  an'  if  any  harm  should  hap  to  vail 
't'ull  be  all  their  own  faults,  an'  only  they  to 
blame.  I  zay  for  a  man  to  be  hollared  at  when 
he's  only  standing  so  quiet  as  a  mouse  on  his 
own  groun'  is  a  thing  that  ought  not  to  be 
'lowed.  She's  mad.  The  ooman's  mad.  Stark, 
staring  mad.  That's  what  she  is;  for  all  her 
words  do  show  it.  "Pis  well  enough  for  fools 
to  run  up  here  an'  listen,  an'  then  go  home  an' 
laugh.  'Tis  but  a  step  from  words  like  that  to 
deeds.  Did  ought  to  be  looked  into  by  they 
that  do  belong  to  her  afore  harm  do  come  an' 
'tis  too  late.  She's  mad." 

"She's  more  in  her  right  mind  than  you  have 
ever  a-bin,  Jacob  Handsford,  clever  as  you  be. 
I  do  hold  wi'  more  'an  half  she  said,  an'  more 
'an  dree-quarters,  too.  Let  her  be,  I  zay. 
Poor  thing,  she've  a-suffered  enough.  Let  her 


336  A  Tangled  Web 

come  an'  go  in  peace,"  said  great-uncle  Tutch- 
ins,  and  a  murmur  ran  round  the  little  group 
of  bystanders :  "Ay,  let  Rizpah  come  and  go  in 
peace." 

"She  do  bring  down  the  bones  o'  young  Jack 
to  bury — "  cried  Jacob,  his  shrill  pipe  of  a 
voice  rising  into  the  shriek  that  used  of  old  to 
make  poor  Ursula  so  angry. 

But  the  villagers  broke  in  upon  his  words. 
They  would  hear  none  of  this,  and  least  of 
all  from  Jacob.  "  'Tis  a  lie,"  muttered  one. 
"There's  none  have  a-zeed  it  done,"  shouted 
another;  and  Jacob  found  himself  pushed  aside 
and  jostled  from  behind,  he  could  not,  for  the 
life  of  him,  say  by  whom. 

Then  somebody  took  up  the  phrase  that  had 
fallen  from  the  lips  of  Rizpah,  and  from  all 
sides  the  folk  yelled  at  him:  "No  soul  above 
money."  "No  soul  above  money."  So  that 
he  felt  there  was  never  a  friend  in  the  whole 
crowd,  and  then  his  heart  quailed. 

Then  cousin  Simon  Mogg  said  the  last  word. 

"You'd  better  to  get  home,  Jacob  Handsford, 
out  o'  the  sight  of  honest  folk.  I  for  one  shall 
never  like  'ee  nor  listen  to  'ee,  so  long  as  I  do 
live.  For  a  trust  is  a  trust,  mind,  a-left  by  one 


Rizpah  337 

of  they  that's  gone.  An'  a  man  that  do  fail  to 
carry  un  out,  every  jot  an'  tittle,  do  wrong 
dead  an'  living  both  alike.  So  I  for  one  shall 
think  bad  o'  'ee  for  Ursula's  trust  money  so 
long  as  I  do  live.  An'  you'd  better  to  take 
care  o'  the  chile,  so  there — I  do  tell  'ee  you'd 
better  to  take  care  o'  the  chile.  For  there's  eyes 
enough  upon  'ee,  Jacob  Handsford,  an'  some 
that  do  know  your  ways  be  ready  to  think  more 
'an  they  can  zee." 

There  had  been  talk  amongst  the  neighbours 
about  the  child  that  Ursula  scarcely  lived  to  see, 
and  many  a  woman  had  said  she  would  rear  the 
boy  herself  and  glad,  sure  enough,  rather  than 
the  poor  mite  should  grow  up  under  the  same 
roof  as  that  old  screw. 

The  taunt  stung  Jacob.  He  could  stand  no 
more,  and  pushing  his  way  between  great-uncle 
Tutchins  and  cousin  Simon  Mogg,  with  head 
bent  and  trembling  in  every  limb,  he  went 
homeward  down  the  road. 

A  dim  glimmer  of  light  broke  in  upon  his 
mind.  He  had  always  thought  of  himself  as 
the  most  prudent  man  alive,  whilst  all  the  rest 
were  fools.  He  had  pitied  himself  to  think 
such  weight  of  trouble  should  fall  upon  one  so 


338  A  Tangled  Web 

wise,  who  had  worked  and  saved,  worked  and 
saved,  every  day  alike,  from  morn  till  night. 
He  but  followed  a  blind  instinct  to  get  wealth, 
and  hitherto  his  conscience  commended  him  in 
all  he  did.  But  now  a  doubt  crept  into  his 
brain.  He  held  back  Ursula's  money  for  her 
good — for  her  own  good — he  kept  saying  to 
himself,  in  anger  too,  as  if  he  were  contradict- 
ing Simon  Mogg.  But  yet  it  was  true.  If  he 
had  given  the  maid  her  own,  none  of  this  sor- 
row would  have  befallen. 

Then  a  sense  of  his  helplessness  fell  upon 
him — two  farms  on  his  hands,  and  not  a  soul, 
man  or  woman,  to  help  in  anything,  except 
Hannah,  who  had  her  hands  full,  half  her  time, 
with  the  motherless  child.  Ah !  if  he  had  but 
Ursula  now,  wed  to  either  William  or  Jack, 
with  the  other  up  to  Winterhays,  good  friend 
and  neighbour  to  turn  in  at  busy  times.  Why ! 
not  the  revelling  of  ten  years  could  bring  about 
the  waste  of  the  last  six  months.  Yet  he  acted 
all  for  her  good — all  for  her  good,  as  he 
thought.  Though  it  was  hers  by  law.  And 
he  lied  to  her  to  hold  it  back.  And  would  have 
kept  it  if  he  could. 

So,  as  he  plodded  home,  this  doubt,  new  and 


Rizpah  339 

strange,  that  he  had  brought  all  the  loneliness 
and  sorrow  upon  himself,  kept  working  in  his 
brain.  Argue  as  he  would,  back  it  came,  and 
he  could  not  shake  it  off. 

As  he  reached  hard  by  his  barton-gate,  his 
hobnails  struck  with  a  sharp  clink  against  some- 
thing lying  in  the  road. 

He  stopped  and  looked  upon  the  ground  at 
his  feet.  He  was  not  so  swallowred  up  in 
thought  but  he  must  stoop  down  and  search 
around  him.  There,  shining  dimly  upon  the 
wet  road,  he  found  a  horseshoe  and  picked  it 
up.  Iron  was  scarce  in  those  days,  and  it  was 
worth  a  penny  of  the  smith. 

He  crossed  the  farmyard  and  went  into  the 
garden,  carrying  it  in  his  hand.  There  was  a 
nail  in  the  wall  by  the  kitchen  window,  and  to 
keep  it  safe  he  would  hang  it  upon  that.  The 
outside  shutters  were  as  yet  unclosed,  for  day 
was  only  just  gone  and  Hannah,  so  far,  had  not 
found  a  moment  to  go  out.  He  stepped  for- 
ward to  shut  them  up.  Faithful  to  the  habit  of 
his  life,  he  glanced  in  through  the  window. 
Then  he  stayed  to  watch. 

Upon  the  hearth  blazed  a  small  fire,  for 
Hannah  had  just  laid  on  a  handful  of  sticks. 


340  A  Tangled  Web 

Jacob  could  hear  the  crackling  as  the  flames 
leapt  up.  The  maid  had  something  to  warm. 
She  had  set  on  the  skillet.  And  now  she  was 
sitting  back  on  the  little,  four-legged,  oaken 
stool,  but  just  in  the  glow  of  the  blaze,  a  bright 
picture  against  the  gloom  of  the  square  kitchen 
behind,  in  which  no  candle  burnt. 

On  her  lap  was  Ursula's  child,  a  boy  getting 
on  for  six  months  old,  and  the  maid's  face  was 
bent  down  close  over  the  face  of  the  baby.  Arid 
they  talked  and  laughed,  these  two  love  chil- 
dren, as  though  there  could  be  no  ill  in  life. 
For  Hannah  looked  like  a  little  mother  and 
happy  as  the  day,  and  the  warmth  fell  on  the 
young  limbs  of  the  child,  and  that  for  the  pres- 
ent was  enough,  for  it  crowed,  and  jerked,  and 
kicked,  and  laughed  again. 

Jacob  stood  awhile  to  look.  The  sight  held 
him,  he  knew  not  why.  Yet  it  made  him  rest- 
less, and  uncomfortable,  too,  as  if  there  might 
be  something  uncanny  in  seeing  these  two 
things,  with  nothing  whatever  in  the  world, 
so  glad. 

At  last,  he  closed  the  windows  and  went  in- 
doors. 

He  sat  down  in  the  corner  in  silence.     But 


Rizpah  341 

all  the  joy  and  laughter  had  fled,  and  Hannah 
wore  only  the  old,  wistful  look  upon  her  face. 

The  thought  of  Simon  Mogg's  warning  came 
into  his  mind,  and  presently  Jacob  spoke : — 

"Take  care  o'  un,  Hannah,"  he  said,  quickly, 
in  a  low  voice,  craning  forward  so  that  his  thin 
face  came  close  to  the  little  workhouse  maid. 
"Ha !  zee  you  do  look  a'ter  un  well.  Don't  'ee 
stint  un — don't  'ee  let  un  want,  whatever  it  do 
cost.  Bring  un  up  to  be  a  man.  Look  to  it 
that  he  do  thrive  an'  do  well,  an'  do  have  all  he 
do  want.  An'  if  he  do  get  on,  I'll — I'll  mind 
'ee  one  o'  these  days." 

The  little  workhouse  maid  looked  up — a 
sharp,  wondering  glance — to  learn  what  this 
might  mean. 

Jacob  had  never  looked  more  in  earnest  in 
his  life. 

Presently  he  drew  back  into  the  gloom  of 
the  chimney  corner  muttering  to  himself. 

"Ay,  they  Tutchinses — an'  Moggses — an' 
thik  trumpery  Malachi  Webb.  I'll  bring  un  up 
to  buy  'em  all  up.  Zo  I  will.  The  whole  pack 
o' 'em.  He!  he!  The  fools!" 

Then  the  little,  new-born  waif,  with  all  its 
journey  before  it,  by  ways  unknown  to  regions 


342  A  Tangled  Web 

unexplored    and    undreamt    of,    kicked,    and 
laughed,  and  crowed  again. 

But  the  strange  life  of  that  man-child,  with 
what  he  wrought  for  Jacob  and  what  Jacob  did 
for  him,  is  a  story  which  has  yet  to  be  told. 


THE   END. 


A     000107580     3 


